Draco had written the letter the day after the dinner. A long, heavy text, filled with the formality Lucius so cherished. He explained that James Sirius would be a Potter, that he would have contact with Muggles, but would not be confined to Muggle culture as Draco himself had been. He reinforced that Lucius had no right to argue about it. It was a matter of lineage, yes, but also of choice, and Draco made that clear.
A week had passed, and the letter remained unanswered. Silence. That should have been unsettling, but, on the other hand, Harry was smiling more. Draco saw him smiling in the corridors, distracted, and he would also stroke his belly absentmindedly, especially when someone mentioned the word baby in his presence. Draco had to admit, it was kind of cute.
And most importantly, Harry no longer seemed uncomfortable around him. He sat beside him in the library, patiently explained details from Muggle Studies, and sometimes Draco even made up questions just to hear him speak with that calm, almost pedagogical tone. He wondered if that was how Harry had taught his classmates in Dumbledore's Army, before Draco himself had helped Umbridge tear it apart.
And, of course, there was the kiss. The insistent memory of Harry's lips brushing his cheek. Draco tried not to think too much about the way Harry surrendered in kisses, or how pliant and spoiled he became during sex. No, that hadn't been a drunken, careless kiss, but a sober one. A deliberate gesture, a week ago, that Draco replayed in his mind until he lost count.
"Give it up, Draco, I just can't see Potter in love with you." Millicent drawled lazily, sprawled across Theodore's bed. Draco sat at the desk, spinning the Malfoy ring between his fingers.
"And could you picture them shagging? Because that happened." Daphne shot back matter-of-factly, and Millicent pulled a thoughtful grimace.
"Draco's always been in love with the Scarhead." Pansy rolled her eyes, but her tone was purposefully sharp.
"Draco, sure." Millicent pressed on. "I'm talking about Potter for him."
"He kissed my cheek last week." Draco muttered, still twirling the ring on his finger.
"If you say that one more time, I'm joining Moaning Myrtle." Blaise complained, sprawled on Draco's bed, theatrically bored.
"Have you noticed we've heard this story a thousand times, but about the night you actually shagged… dead silence?" Theodore asked, laughing, lying on Longbottom's bed.
"No!" Greg nearly shouted. "We don't want details of Draco and Potter shagging, thanks!" Theo burst out laughing. Draco rolled his eyes.
"You didn't hear anything because we were drunk. And not this time." He grumbled, almost offended.
"Let's hope your kid doesn't inherit this habit of yours, repeating things until it's unbearable." Daphne remarked, and Draco flipped her off.
"Alright, since no one here knows shame…" Millicent began. "Who's designing the crib? I'm voting for something classic, mahogany headboard with silver detail."
"Mahogany?" Daphne pulled a dramatic face. "Dark green velvet. Very Slytherin, refined. The boy needs to know where he came from."
"He'll grow up with existential crises, not aesthetic sense. He'll be a Potter." Pansy retorted, but she was smiling.
"And you, Draco? Are you going to sing to him when he's born, or just keep staring at Potter until you melt?" Millicent teased, leaning over the desk.
"I don't sing." Draco replied, indignant, spinning the ring faster.
"Of course not." Pansy arched a brow. "You just sit there listening to Potter talk, patient, and find it adorable. It's practically a hobby."
"He smiled more this week." Draco said quietly, distracted. "I saw him in the corridor. He smiled."
"And does that make you happy, or destroy you?" Theodore asked, voice calm, almost cruel in its precision. Draco turned his gaze toward the window, as if he could escape.
Millicent clapped her hands, breaking the mood. "Right, crib sorted. Now, who's going to be godfather or godmother? Depends on who from the Golden Trio Potter picks."
"If it's the Weasley, I vote Pansy." Blaise said. "She looks like she could discipline and keep style."
"I'm not risking my reputation with pacifiers." Pansy muttered. "If it's Granger, pick Theo. He looks like he gives practical advice."
"As long as it doesn't involve nappies." Theo raised his hands, laughing.
"And the name?" Daphne perked up, eyes shining. "James Sirius Potter is noble, but where did the second name come from?"
"I suggested it." Draco said before anyone else could answer. "James, for Harry's father. Sirius, for his godfather, my mother's cousin. And to keep the Black tradition with a constellation name."
"James Sirius." Millicent repeated with a smile. "Serious and dramatic enough to be your son."
"And the school?" Pansy fired off. "Are we pushing for Slytherin?"
"If the Hat's got any sense, Slytherin." Blaise murmured. "At least he'll grow up elegant."
"If he takes after Potter, that's the Headmistress's problem." Greg shot back.
Draco spun the ring once more, eyes fixed on the metal. "I just hope the Hat chooses something that makes him happy."
The door burst open suddenly, and Draco shot to his feet, heart racing at the thought that something terrible had happened. But no. Harry was smiling.
A rare, open smile, his green eyes shining almost cruelly, because that was exactly what always undid him. Draco's gaze locked on his lips, and the memory came far too quickly, the soft texture against his cheek, just a week ago. Sober. Intentional. He blinked hard, trying to shake it, but Harry was already crossing the room.
Without warning, he took Draco's left hand, the one with the Malfoy ring, and guided it beneath his sweatshirt, straight onto the warm skin of his stomach. Draco was ready to snap with a dry question, maybe an automatic reprimand at such boldness, when he felt it.
A faint movement against his palm. Tiny, almost imperceptible, but clear as a signature.
His eyes widened and, instinctively, he met Harry's. The gleam in them, Draco knew it wasn't meant for him. It was for the baby. But selfishly, he accepted it as if it were.
Another push. A firmer kick, small but undeniable. And he laughed. Really laughed, wide and unguarded, no calculation, no masks.
"He's kicking. Merlin… he's kicking." His voice sounded more incredulous than excited, yet it was pure excitement, vibrating in him like something he hadn't felt since childhood.
"I've felt him move for a few weeks now, but this was the first time I felt it from the outside." Harry explained, and Draco simply ran his hand slowly across the spot, as if he could etch the sensation into his skin. Another kick, softer, and he laughed again, almost unable to believe this was happening to him.
Harry stood before him, smiling, and Draco wondered what it would be like to kiss him like this. To kiss him fully aware, with no alcohol blurring the memory, no excuses to forget after. Just the two of them, the real taste, the certainty.
He cupped Harry's face with his free hand. He had to. It was almost unbearable not to have both hands on him. Harry's green eyes widened, and Draco leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. A simple gesture, yet carrying the weight of everything he didn't say. When he pulled back, another kick, the strongest yet.
And that's when memory betrayed him again, Harry's skin under his fingers, not on his stomach but on his back, his hips, warm and soft like that night when they were both drunk. Draco didn't want to remember, didn't want to see flashes of Harry arching beneath him, lips parted, unguarded in surrender. And yet, that's what came to him, cruelly vivid.
"Thank you." He whispered, still with his hand pressed to Harry's stomach. Harry gave a small, shy smile, and shyness on him was devastatingly charming.
"I thought it was only fair to let you be the first to feel it." He replied, as if it were something ordinary. As if he hadn't just handed Draco a privilege he would never have dared to ask for aloud, but already longed for desperately.
Draco almost snapped back, but the boy was already stepping away, one step back and the immediate loss of that warmth against his skin.
"I'm going to play chess with Ron downstairs. Come down later." Harry suggested with a smile, and before Draco could react, he turned to Theodore.
"Neville's there," he added, looking at Theodore, like someone remembering something practical in the middle of it all, and then left, closing the door behind him.
Silence. Draco lowered his gaze to his own hand, still raised, as if it might carry some trace of the movement. It didn't. But the memory was so vivid it felt tangible.
"My baby" He murmured, softly, not like a delirium, but like a statement. Because it was. It was his too, and that kick had been the proof. James. The name came to him like a whisper refusing to leave. He found himself imagining, the face, the eyes, always the eyes, would they be as green as Harry's, would they carry that same disarming intensity?
"How many weeks is he?" Pansy asked, her curious voice cutting through his daydream.
"Twenty." He answered without thinking, automatic, still fixed on the memory of that touch. "Halfway through the pregnancy."
Halfway. The baby was halfway to arriving. And Draco already felt far too whole just for having felt that tiny push against his hand.
"Plenty of time for you to have planned the inheritance, the crest, and the presentation ceremony, right?" Millicent teased lazily.
The silence that followed was almost palpable. Draco lifted his chin, the way he would in any aristocratic hall, but the reply didn't come right away. The ring spun around his finger once, twice, until the realization struck him hard.
He hadn't planned a thing. No inheritance clause, no updated crest, no protocol for the baby's presentation. Nothing.
For a moment, it felt like the ground vanished beneath him. He, Draco Malfoy, who always had a strategy, who was always ahead, was behind. Unprepared. Vulnerable.
"I… haven't set the details yet." He admitted, voice thin, masking it as calm.
"Halfway through and you haven't even prepared the family tree?" Pansy placed a hand on her chest, theatrically. "That's almost scandalous."
"Or worse," Theodore added with amusement. "Almost… disorganized."
Draco twisted the ring so fast it was as if he meant to wear it down. He was already building mental lists, the crib, the crest, the ceremony, the layette, the damned etiquette lessons Potter would certainly ignore. All at once. All urgent.
"He's going to lose ihis mind." Blaise muttered lazily, watching the silent panic begin to take shape.
"I'm not," Draco shot back immediately, but the defensive tone only made it worse.
Millicent raised a brow, satisfied. "Of course not. You're just trying to plan twenty years of the baby's life in two minutes."
"Twenty? Merlin, he's already arranging the boy's engagement party." Theo burst out laughing.
Draco closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, but it was useless. The kick still pulsed in the memory of his hand, and with it, the urgency. The baby was coming. Half the pregnancy was already gone, and he couldn't delay anything anymore.
"And his room?" he murmured, almost to himself. "It can't be just anything… it needs to be safe, it needs protection. Green is the obvious choice, but maybe dark blue to balance it out… and the children's library, we'll need to set that up—"
"Draco." Greg cut him off, his deep voice slicing through the rambling. "Breathe."
Draco blinked, offended. "I am breathing."
"Doesn't look like it." Greg crossed his arms. "Looks like you're trying to run a marathon inside your own head. The baby isn't being born tomorrow."
"Halfway through the pregnancy, Greg! That means it's already past time to, "
Theo raised a hand, calm as ever. "If you start losing it now, Draco, you'll reach the delivery with fifty ulcers and no hair left. And guess who'll be laughing? Me."
"That's not funny." Draco narrowed his eyes.
"It's hilarious," Theo said, standing from the bed and walking over with measured steps, leaning lightly on the desk. "Draco," he continued in a low, gentle voice, "I know exactly why you feel the urge to control every detail. You want safety, stability, you want to anticipate everything before it goes wrong. But breathe. We still have time."
Draco lifted his gaze, hesitating, unable to argue without feeling exposed.
"These details," Theo went on, leaning in a little closer, "they're insignificant compared to what really matters. You're imagining scenarios, order, perfect choices… and forgetting that the heart of it all is simply being there. The rest, believe me, will fall into place."
"One step at a time. Breathe, Draco. The baby isn't here yet, and nothing will spiral out of control if you calm down." Greg added, steady.
Draco bit his lip, his shoulders tense, but a part of his mind loosened at Theo's words. That calm gaze, the certainty in his voice, chipped away at the suffocating urgency that had him in its grip.
"I… I'll try," he muttered, letting the ring rest on the desk for a moment. Theo gave a faint, approving smile.
"That's enough," he said, with a warmth in his tone that demanded nothing, only offered presence. "Just breathe."
"Shall we head down?" Blaise suggested, and Draco realized he'd been watching him closely.
"Potter's down there," Daphne reminded him.
Draco drew in a deep breath. A silent impulse of vigilance and care stirred in him, he could make sure Harry and the baby were safe, comfortable, shielded from any nuisance at Hogwarts. He didn't need to hover over him constantly, Harry was with Weasley, entertained, and that was enough. Just knowing he could control the environment, even from a distance, brought him an unexpected calm.
He inhaled deeply, reached for the book on his desk, and walked to the wardrobe, pulling out an open-front, white mohair coat. He left the room without glancing at his friends, still, from the sound of footsteps behind him, he knew they were following.
He descended the stairs, and the noises of the common room began to fill the air. Muffled laughter, the clatter of wizard chess pieces slamming into place, an atmosphere that seemed to vibrate in sharp contrast to the control Draco always tried to maintain.
He went down the stairs and heard the noise of the common room. There was a group gathered near the entrance, but Draco only really noticed once he found Harry. He was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, a chessboard between him and Weasley, who was leaning against the sofa between Granger's legs. She was reading a book absentmindedly, her free hand running through the red strands.
"Checkmate," he heard Weasley's voice.
"What? How?" Harry asked, sounding incredulous.
"If you move the knight, my bishop takes your king. If you move the king back, my rook gets him. You can't move him to any square on the right, and to the left, my queen gets him." Weasley leaned over the board and explained, piece by piece, how Harry had no way out.
Draco only caught Harry's frustrated sigh, and before he even realized it, he was already walking closer. He draped his coat over Harry's shoulders, watching him startle before giving a small smile, and then sat on the sofa right behind, setting his book aside. One glance at the board was enough to confirm, Weasley was right.
"He set you up," Draco murmured.
Green eyes turned to him, and, as always, Draco felt the world shrink in that instant.
"I've never beaten him in a game," Harry shrugged.
"But now you give me trouble when I try to beat you," Weasley laughed.
"That's a compliment, considering you once beat Professor McGonagall," Harry said, and Draco frowned.
"You beat the Headmistress in a match?" Draco asked, incredulous.
"In first year," Harry said, smiling.
"Want to try?" Weasley challenged, raising one eyebrow.
Harry scooted to the side, and Draco slid down to sit on the floor, flicking his wand so the pieces returned to their starting positions.
His pieces were black, but Weasley rotated the board, leaving Draco with white, so Draco made the first move, waiting for the redhead to respond.
"What's a Vigilia Gentis?" Granger asked, closing the book she had been reading and looking at Weasley.
"A traditional pure-blood vigil where young people spend the night reciting ancestors and vows of loyalty to prove respect for their lineage," Weasley replied, moving a pawn. Granger just nodded and went back to her book.
"The Children of the Constellations" Draco moved a piece and turned when he heard Harry's soft voice.
He was holding Draco's book, his left hand supporting the volume, his right resting on his belly, on James. Sitting beside him, Draco saw every detail as though it were impossible not to notice, the cheeks flushed by the firelight, the vivid red of his lips, the glasses slipping a little lower down his nose. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in the narrow shoulders, in the way Harry held both the book and his stomach at the same time, that caught Draco's attention.
Draco was taller even while sitting, and the difference in angle made him see Harry from above, his messy hair falling in uneven tufts and nearly brushing the glasses. And still, none of it distracted him from what always mattered, the eyes.
"Volume Five, The Return of Malfira" he read aloud, then looked up at him, those green eyes that, whenever they rose to meet his, seemed to demand more from him than he had ever managed to give anyone.
Draco studied the lightning-shaped scar, the way Harry's hair fell over his forehead and kept it from being too visible, though he could still trace the line as it cut past one eye, a simple, straight, thin mark reaching just below those beautiful green eyes.
Harry was wearing the clothes Draco had given him, simple, yet absurdly well-suited to him, with Draco's coat draped over his shoulders. That sweet scent that was uniquely Harry mingled with the fabric's, and Draco realized, once again, how this combination was becoming familiar, almost necessary.
Beautiful. Draco would never say the word aloud, but it was the only possible definition.
"Malfoy," he heard Weasley's voice and looked over, remembering the chess match, his eyes flicking back to the board before moving a piece.
"It's a series about Edrin Valmour," he explained, forcing his tone into neutrality, as if he weren't on the verge of losing himself in that green gaze. "An heir who has to prove his honor amid lineage rituals, drawing-room intrigues, and dangerous alliances. The struggle is between preserving family prestige or betraying tradition to survive in a changing world." He said it for Harry, noticing Granger had stopped reading to listen.
"I see a few similarities," Granger remarked, and Draco glanced at her before moving another piece.
"Well, it was written a century and a half ago," he shrugged.
Granger closed the book she'd been reading and reached out her hand, Harry passed her the volume, and she began reading the back cover. Draco moved another piece after Weasley, trying not to show he realized he'd blundered, but the redhead noticed, enough to make Draco curse silently.
"Sounds good," Granger said, handing the book back to Harry.
The game went on, and Draco even managed to stay focused for a while. Until he felt the light weight of Harry's head resting on his shoulder. The scent overwhelmed everything instantly, sweet, warm, absurdly comforting. The messy strands brushed against his skin, and Draco felt how soft they were.
He glanced sideways. Harry looked at ease, fingers absentmindedly trailing over his stomach, the book Draco had already seen him reading open in his free hand. An ordinary scene, and yet devastating. Draco tried to keep his composure, tried to be rational, but yielded for just a moment. He leaned in, just enough to breathe in the fragrance of that messy hair.
Two seconds. Nothing more. And when he raised his head again, he found Weasley's and Granger's eyes on him.
Draco simply returned to the game, impassive, as if nothing had happened.