1

Prologue

1998.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, irritated. Really, the man had asked this same question several times now. “Do you need to ask that again?”

The man sighed. “No, I suppose not, it’s just…”

“You are being well compensated, are you not?”

“Yes, of course, that’s not the –”

“Then I suggest you continue with your work and do not think to question me again. I can always obtain the services of another.”

Which wasn’t quite true. There were others with this man’s talent in the field, but none with his reputation for accuracy and, if Draco ever needed any sort of accuracy, he needed it on this project. It was too important. However, Raul didn’t need to know that.

Sure enough, Raul sighed once more and continued his work, allowing Draco to adjust his robes, relax back into the pillows on his bed and return to thinking about Potter.

All being well, one day Draco was going to have his revenge on Harry Potter. Oh, yes, Harry bloody Potter was going to get what was coming to him in a way that he would never be able to escape. Ever.

Chapter 1.


2008.

Harry flicked open the newspaper, effectively hiding his face from his children. Three-year-old James was currently battling with a piece of toast. The toast was winning and refused to stay lodged in his nose. His younger brother Albus was shrieking with laughter in that manic high-pitched tone that two-year-olds have and that Al always liked to display right when Harry had a headache from hell and would have dearly loved a quiet breakfast. For a change.

He adored his children and on a normal day they were as good as gold, but today they were going to collect their newborn sister from the hospital and consequently were overexcited. To exacerbate the problem, Ron and a few mates had arrived last night armed with several bottles of Firewhisky to ‘wet the baby’s head’ and Harry had been drinking most of the night. Thankfully, he was on parental leave from his job at the Wizarding Historical Archive and Museum, or WHAM as they liked to call it, for the next week, which removed at least one responsibility from his list.

Molly had stayed the night to look after the boys while Harry and his friends celebrated and he was thankful for her help but he wished she would come and take over for him and get them to just shhhhhhhh for a few minutes while he read the paper and let the hangover potion do its work.

He sighed as he heard a muffled noise - one that sounded suspiciously like a sneeze - from James. It probably meant he’d managed to get a corner of his toast stuck right up in his nose and was trying to sneeze it out. James was quite good at getting things stuck in places they shouldn’t be. Like the time he’d found Al’s stuffed dragon, Binky, squashed flat and slipped under the rug in the hallway. Only the fact that the poor dragon had managed to gather up enough energy for one last blast of fire from its mouth and scorched a black hole in the rug had saved it. Harry wondered at times if his son would grow up to be a thief. Or perhaps a spy. He was good at hiding things.

“James, do I need to remove that piece of toast from your nose?”

“Do, Dad,” replied James, unabashedly grinning at him while Al still shrieked in laughter from his chair at James’ silly talking.

“Fine, well I hope not. But you know what your Gamma Molly will do if she thinks you have a stuffy nose, don’t you?”

Harry grinned internally when James’ eyes widened in panic.

“Se woon’t?”

Harry nodded. “She will assume you are coming down with a cold and dose you up good and proper with that vile tasting medicine you hate.”

Al’s laughter subsided into a worried giggle. Neither of the boys liked Molly’s medicine and even at such a young age they refused to be seen as sick around her in fear of being dosed with something that made them feel ill. Harry didn’t blame them. Not one bit.

“Daddy! Fix Dames!” Al demanded.

“You think I should?” Harry turned a grin onto his youngest son. Despite their noise, they really were adorable and he could never resist them. Al nodded vigorously, grinning and shoving a piece of his own toast into his mouth.

“’Fore Gamma Molly tums!” Al said, around his mouthful of toast.

“Hey, little man, no speaking with food in your mouth,” Harry admonished him gently. All the same Harry pulled out his wand and turned to James.

“What do you think, tiger?”

A hint of relief crossed James’ face now. He knew Harry would fix him and look after him. He nodded.

“All right. But tell me the truth next time you need help.”

Harry waved his wand and extracted the soggy pieces of toast, wondering just how James had managed to get so much of it up there. He flicked it to the rubbish bin just as Molly walked through the door. The three boys exchanged secret grins and went back to eating their breakfast or, in Harry’s case, reading the newspaper.

“Good morning, boys,” Molly’s cheerful voice greeted them. Both boys giggled in their secret relief and said good morning back.

“Good morning, Harry, dear. I’m surprised that you’re up this early after the late night you had.”

“Morning, Molly. Well, when two heffalumps jump on your bed and dig their feet and elbows into you without mercy,” he turned and glared playfully at his two heffalumps, making Al squeal in laughter. “You tend to not want to stay in bed a minute longer.”

“Daddy said a swear word when we jumped on him,” Al chanted through his laughter, cheeky eyes flashing with mischief.

“He said ‘shit’,” James added. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

“Daddy thinks that small boys should be seen and not heard or else they will not be allowed anywhere near the hospital to pick up their sister later and they will certainly not be allowed their favourite ice cream from Fortesque’s on the way there.” The children had jumped right on his most sensitive spot while he was sleeping and probably ruined any chance of more children. It had hurt. Badly. Harry thought he should be excused for swearing in that situation.

The children very quickly quieted at that and Harry grinned at Molly as she busied herself round the bright kitchen. Thank God the hangover potion was beginning to work; he could look at the sunlight reflecting off the surfaces in his kitchen and not feel like his eyes were being ripped out of his head.

“Have you eaten?” Molly asked him, ever the mother.

“Not sure my stomach could handle much in the way of food but if you’re making coffee I’ll have one.” He caught her disapproving glance. “I’ll eat later, I promise, but if I eat now it will probably end up down the toilet.”

“All right, dear. Seeing as these monsters are finished eating I’ll take them and clean them up.”

“Thank you,” said Harry, grinning.

The boys jumped down off their chairs and followed Molly out of the kitchen, still on their best behaviour, under threat of missing out on collecting baby Lily and the ice cream. Privately, Harry thought they’d miss the ice cream more.

He realised that Molly hadn’t made him coffee, so he reluctantly dragged himself off the chair and prepared his own, hearing the complaints about washing and brushing teeth coming from the bathroom down the hall.

Once his coffee was prepared he settled himself to reading the paper, his headache seeming to disappear completely at the first sip of the strong liquid. Maybe there was some truth in Ginny’s accusation that he was addicted to coffee.

The disappearance of his headache left him feeling ready to tackle the classified section, reading the small print for sales of deceased estates that he could attend and possibly purchase interesting items of furniture or other odd artifacts for the museum. While he was studying a sample list of items for sale in Albert Driver’s ‘Everything Must Go Clearance Sale’ , a name caught his attention in the Obituaries column.

Malfoy, Draco 1980-2008
Taken before his time in the most vicious of circumstances.
Rest in peace, nephew and cousin.
Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin.

Harry almost spat out his coffee in shock. Draco Malfoy was dead? How had that happened? Andromeda hadn’t made it sound nice. He knew from Teddy that they saw Malfoy regularly, as the boy usually talked about him non-stop on the day after a visit.

He tried to think what he knew of Malfoy since the war. It all seemed like such a long time ago most days, where the scars had grown to cover the gaping wounds, either healing them or hiding them. Directly after the war, Lucius and Narcissa had been given sentences of five years, merely because they had been allied with Voldemort and carried his mark. Harry didn’t think that was undeserved, although he had spoken up on Narcissa’s behalf for saving his life, which reduced her sentence to two years. Not that it had mattered. Eighteen months into their sentences, a group of giants had gone on the rampage at the prison and killed most of the prisoners, both Malfoys included.

Draco had been sentenced to house arrest, confined to the Manor for ten years. Harry supposed that term should have been completed around about now. The testimony Harry had given to the Wizengamot hadn’t helped all that much, though it had kept the boy out of Azkaban. At least he’d been spared that. Still, to survive the decade of house arrest, only to die soon thereafter, was the cruelest joke. Harry made a note to ask Andromeda what happened, although surely if it was so vicious it would have been reported in the paper.

Frowning, he flicked back to the front page and started scanning the articles, looking for any indication of what had happened to Malfoy.

After half an hour he could still find nothing. Which was unusual as the Prophet usually took great delight in announcing the deaths of ex-Death Eaters when they occurred. The last few years there had been less and less of them and so the announcements were becoming even grander. Harry remembered three months ago when Jugson died, the Prophet had prepared a special edition for the sole purpose of announcing his death.

James tore into the kitchen and tugged at Harry’s arm, impatiently.

“Daddy, Daddy, come on,” he whined. “Ice cream time!” His brown eyes had such a dramatic tint to them that Harry almost laughed. It would surely be a tragedy if they missed out on ice cream right this very minute.

“James Potter, you have only just had breakfast. It is not time for ice cream just yet. But how about I take you and Al across the road to the park for a play first and then we can have ice cream. All right?”

Al came skipping into the kitchen, chanting “park, park, park” which made James kick his ankle and stage whisper “We’re trying to get ice cream. Shhhh.”

Biting his lip, he watched the interplay between his sons and saw Al pin James with his bright green eyes and look for all the world like he was thinking things through. Then he grinned and began a new chant. “Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream.”

Harry could do nothing but laugh delightedly at his two boys. They were terrors now; he could hardly imagine what they would be like when they got older. “There will be ice cream after the park.”

“Feed da ducks?” Al asked, clinging to Harry’s knees and bouncing.

“All right. We can feed the ducks. You boys go and get your shoes and I’ll get the bread.”

They both scampered off to get their shoes and Harry prepared them for the trip to the park, all thoughts of what had happened to Draco Malfoy pushed from his mind.

Consciousness came slowly to Draco. It was just a vague presence back behind his dream - a very lovely dream where he was giving Potter what for in the dungeons at the Manor – just enough for him to realise that he was dreaming. Just enough for him to smile in satisfaction. He might pull this dream out and place it in a Pensieve later. Finally having Potter exactly where he wanted him was something he’d like to revisit over and over again, even if it was only in his dreams.

Eventually, his bladder let him know it was time to wake up properly and he slipped his hand beneath the covers, under the elastic of his boxers to adjust himself, taking care not to caress himself too much or he’d be too hard to piss. Though, slowly he was registering that his limbs felt stiff and were hard to move. He frowned and went to open his eyes, but they felt like they were coated in the crusty stuff he’d had once as a child, and were stuck together. What in the hell was happening? He was sure he’d gone to bed the previous night in good health and free from any revolting diseases of the eye.

Last night…

Oh fuck…

Draco sat bolt upright in bed, ignoring the bolts of pain from the sudden movement, as his memories flooded back. After several panicked moments where he thought he might be blind, Draco forced his eyes open and blinked numerous times to get used to the light and clear the blurriness from his vision.

When it cleared, his worst fears were realised. The bed he was currently in was his own, the room a perfect replica of the original upstairs. Everything down to the items in the drawers beside the bed were exactly the same as they had been when he was eighteen. But the room had one wall missing and in its place, Draco had a view over a dusty Ballroom. The Blue Ballroom in Malfoy Manor that had been closed up and warded since Abraxas Malfoy died from dragon pox in it forty years ago.

Draco had had no plans to reopen it any time soon and he was sure that most people had forgotten about it in any case. Which was why once he’d found a way around the wards, it had been perfect.

But not like this. Anger burned in him with the injustice of it all, hot and bright like the fire of the sun. Involuntarily, his hand rose to his forehead, half expecting to feel the hole that went right through to the soft grey matter of his brain; feel them leaking out between his fingers all over his face. Or had they been blasted out the back of his skull and splattered all over the wall?

He wasn’t stupid; he knew about Muggle guns. He just didn’t know why he’d become victim to one of them. He supposed that he’d have an eternity to think on these things. At least until the dust faded him and bleached colours and shapes from his world until he no longer existed.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, registering that they were stiff and cramped as well, as if they hadn’t ever been used before. When he thought about it, that was probably true. These legs hadn’t been used before; they felt like they were cracking and brittle. He stretched, groaning at the pop and crackle of his joints creaking and loosening up.

Curiosity, and the novelty of seeing his room from this side for the first time, noticeably abated his anger over the reason he was stuck in his portrait. He took several minutes to shakily stand up and walk around the room, checking that everything was exactly as he’d ordered it painted. His shelves with everything on them; books, nick knacks, photographs of himself, Pansy, and his mother. They were all as he remembered, although these photographs didn’t move. When he opened his wardrobe all this clothes were hanging there, in the same neat, ordered fashion they’d been ten years go when the painting had been commissioned.

Even the view from his windows had been painted correctly, although the flock of birds motionless in the sky was disconcerting. Luckily it had been a sunny day when the painting had been done; the sky was blue and there were several puffy clouds, Draco’s favourites.

He opened the door that led to his bathroom and smiled to see his eighteen-year-old self in the mirror, and that even his bottles of hair care products appeared to be exact replicas. And they would never run out, apparently. Just like he’d never run out of food or drink from the kitchens in another portrait, the gardens would always be at their best in yet another portrait and in the Library, he’d had an endless supply of books painted. At least he’d be able to keep up appearances, even though there was no one to keep them up for.

He blinked at himself in the mirror, stilled by a sudden thought.

Potter.

Harry bloody Potter was in his dungeon.
 

2

2008


“Andromeda? Are you there?” Harry called from the front door of Andromeda’s home. The door had been open, but an uneven energy flowed from the house and he felt it lacked manners to just walk in as if he lived there, so he settled for calling out.

Several seconds later, a gangly, ten-year-old Teddy emerged from a side door and headed for Harry. He appeared sombre, sporting hair and robes black as midnight, his pale skin ghostly, looking painted against the darkness. He managed a smile for Harry, though it looked like his face had lost the battle with his manners and wasn’t terribly pleased about it.

“Hello, Harry. Come in.”

“Teddy,” replied Harry warily. “Is something wrong?” he asked, but Teddy had already returned from whence he’d come. Frowning, Harry followed him, trying not to let Teddy’s behaviour and the sudden tense expectant atmosphere of the house concern him.

Andromeda stood and hugged Harry tightly when he walked into the room. “Harry. Good of you to come, we appreciate it.”

“Er…you’re welcome?” What was going on here? Harry wanted to ask, but Andromeda looked so relieved and pleased to see him that he didn’t have the heart to disappoint her by revealing his ignorance.

“Bit hypocritical, though, don’t you think?” Teddy said from his chair by the window.

Andromeda gasped. “Teddy, that’s uncalled for!”

Teddy turned eyes flashing steel on to Harry. “I don’t care. He never cared when Draco was alive, why is he daring to show his face at his memorial service?”

This was Malfoy’s memorial service? Harry looked around. They were the only people in the room. It made him feel unaccountably sad that Malfoy had no one to mourn his death and it explained the cloud of despondency over the house.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t realise this was his…” he trailed off. He’d actually only come over to see Teddy, having forgotten all about wanting to find out how Malfoy died.

Andromeda’s face fell. “It’s all right, Harry, we didn’t expect anyone to come but we left the door open, just in case.”

“I’d like to stay, if I may,” Harry said, turning to look at Teddy. “I know how much he meant to you and I’m sorry you lost him.”

Teddy’s face crumpled and his hair suddenly turned pure white, reminiscent of Malfoy’s, and sprouted to waist length. Teddy promptly hid his face behind it and only by the shaking of his thin shoulders could Harry tell that he was sobbing.

His heart going out to the small boy, and hearing Andromeda’s distress, Harry gathered him up in his arms, just as he did to James when he was distraught over something. He wasn’t sure if Teddy was as amenable to being comforted as James was, but he had to try something. It was hardly fair that Teddy had lost so many people close to him. He didn’t remember his parents, obviously, and Harry had tried to make up for that by being involved in his life, but now it was clear that Teddy had lost someone he loved dearly. Ten-year-old boys were not known for emotional displays like this unless they were deeply affected.

After several moments where Harry was sure that Teddy was going to push him away, the boy gave an anguished sob and clung to Harry, buried his face in Harry’s shoulder and cried. And Harry let him, hearing Andromeda’s quiet sniffles behind him.

When Teddy settled a little, Andromeda began to talk.

“He was like a big brother to Teddy. The days we’d see him, Teddy could speak of nothing else for a long time afterwards. Draco would take him exploring the mansion, you see. They must have traipsed over that mausoleum a hundred times, playing hide and seek in the secret passages, riding broomsticks along carpeted halls so Teddy wouldn’t hurt himself if he fell.”

This prompted a fresh set of sobbing from Teddy and Harry patted his back while Andromeda paused for a moment.

“In the summer they’d swim in the lake and go boating, although the lake was only tiny and they couldn’t go very far. Draco stocked the lake with several hundred fish and they’d spend hours fishing and talking. Draco never spoke down to Teddy.” She sighed deeply. “I suppose it was because we were the only visitors he had, apart from a visit from the Ministry once a month to check on his progress, but he grew to love Teddy and Teddy loved him.”

Teddy’s small, strangled sounding voice continued. “I was going to show him my house and my lake and how we’d made up a special room for when he stayed here. Oh, Harry, why did he have to die?” Teddy’s words set him off again and Harry’s own tears stung his eyes in sympathy.

He’d had no especially charitable thoughts about Malfoy, though he had to admit he was surprised at the way he and Teddy had obviously bonded. There must have been some good in Malfoy after all. And these two people were bonded in grief over their Malfoy with only each other to turn to. No one else that Harry knew of cared about Malfoy one way or the other. He’d been out of the public eye for ten years, confined to his manor the way he was, no one cared any more. They’d forgotten about him.

Well, Harry could stay and listen to them talking about someone they cared about, even if he’d hated him back in school.

“I don’t know, Ted, sometimes things are unfair like that.” Harry led Teddy to the couch and sat down with him, arm still around his shoulder. Teddy returned his hair colour to black and shortened it again so that Harry could see his red, blotchy face, distorted against the black hair and robes, like he’d been in a fight rather than crying. “Can you tell me what happened?”

He could feel Teddy shaking his head, but he was looking at Andromeda anyway, hoping that she’d be up to speaking of it. Harry had learnt the hard way that speaking about losing someone you loved helped in remembering those special times and you could focus on those every time you became sad about them being gone. He’d not done that when Sirius died and had spent a year dealing with random bursts of anger, lashing out at people that didn’t deserve it. He’d done better after the war, although there had been so much death that it had been difficult finding a way to move through the initial loss. Especially since every time he saw Teddy, it roused that massive guilt within him about his argument with Remus and he experienced all over again the futile anger of wanting him to stay and take care of his baby rather than fighting. It had taken time and putting his memories of Remus and Tonks in a Pensieve for Teddy later on to make him feel better.

He’d fared more successfully remembering Fred Weasley. Whenever Harry thought of Fred, he thought of the time that he and George made a swamp in the corridor at Hogwarts and their subsequent legendary exit from the school. It helped to remember him exhibiting some of that comic genius, rather than seeing him dull and lifeless, dead as a result of an explosion during the final battle.

Andromeda sat stiffly down in an armchair, wiping her eyes. “He’d just been released from his house arrest. We’d made plans to meet in Diagon Alley.” She smiled weakly at Harry. Her eyes contained a soft warmth. “We were going to take Teddy to Paris for the day. Draco needed to see his favourite tailor and he wanted to show Teddy the reason he’d loved Paris when he was a child.”

Teddy’s shoulders still shook under Harry’s arm, but it was periodic now and stuttered as if he were trying to stop. Andromeda’s eyes caught his and they narrowed painfully. “While we were getting ready to use the Floo in the Leaky Cauldron, a man called to Draco and when he turned around, he shot him with a Muggle weapon. One bullet right in the head.”

Harry could feel each one of Teddy’s flinches when Andromeda spoke, like he was reliving the shot over and over again. No child should have to witness something like that. Harry was well aware of the damage a bullet could do to a face and how traumatic it would be to see happen – worse in some ways than an Avada Kedavra in that at least the killing curse left the body undamaged. His arm tightened around Teddy.

“Who was it?” Harry asked, hoping that whoever had perpetrated this cruel act had been caught.

“A wizard called Marsdon Corey.”

At Harry’s blank look, she added, “He has a sister called Rosmerta who ran the –”

“Three Broomsticks,” Harry finished, understanding now. Andromeda nodded.

“After he shot Draco and while the poor boy was lying there covered in blood, already dead, this shameful excuse for a human being stood over him, yelling that his sister had never been the same and that Draco had ruined her life and didn’t deserve to live and…” She sighed. “You get the picture.”

“That’s awful,” said Harry.

“It’s all so pointless!” Andromeda exclaimed. “Another life lost to the war and for nothing! He’d done his time; he’d spent ten years shut inside that manor and the immediate surroundings. Ten years of being isolated and virtually imprisoned. Even most of the Death Eaters were given lighter sentences than that and they’d have been out by now if it hadn’t been for the rampaging giants.”

What could he say that didn’t sound ridiculously inane? He couldn’t change anything; if he felt any guilt it would be misplaced and hypocritical in any case, because he hadn’t liked Malfoy, so why would he have gone to visit him? Even if Malfoy was Teddy’s family and Harry Teddy’s godfather. All he could do was sit and listen to their stories of him and try and offer them some comfort now and in the future.

He excused himself to Firecall Ginny and tell her he would be home later. She didn’t mind as Molly was still there, spending a few days with them while Ginny and baby Lily settled in. Then he borrowed Kreacher and asked him to prepare them all some tea and a light meal. That done, he settled in to talk to these two grieving people that he cared deeply for.

Slipping through the portraits was decidedly odd, Draco thought. There was a strange feeling of disconnection each time he felt himself in the blank between one frame and another. Randomly the thought popped into his head that it would be a good way to get rid of a subject in a portrait – move the painting while the subject was in the gutter between the frames. He chuckled to himself; perhaps the anticipation of seeing Potter finally right where he wanted him was making him giddy. Portrait murder, indeed!

As he travelled from one frame to the next, he did peripherally notice that all the rooms he’d organised seemed to be just as he’d asked and he was glad he’d chosen the disused Blue Ballroom to set them up in. The paintings didn’t take up all the white painted walls, not by a long shot, but the fact that he had paintings of his room, his bathroom, the kitchen, library, lounge, dungeon, and garden with his lake painted on a warm sunny day, meant that he had plenty of room to spread out. He’d thought of adding the stables, too, so he could ride, but he’d never liked riding all that much and it seemed pointless. And Potter would never need it, either.

Potter. Harry bloody Potter. Just the thought of his name made Draco’s blood boil. Actually, he didn’t know if he had blood anymore. That was one thing he could test out on Potter one day. It would be a waiting game again now, seeing as his original plan was in tatters with his untimely demise.

During his ten years of isolation, while his rage at Potter and the Ministry had been building steadily, he’d developed an untraceable poison that left no indication that it had ripped through someone’s body; it left only death in its wake. His anger and sense of injustice had room to fester, plenty of room. He had no friends to counsel him into mediation, no elder to temper and control his resentment and so it found fertile ground.

He used to slip into the Blue Ballroom from time to time, when his latest potion had exploded in his face or corroded an animal’s body before it was supposed to. Seeing Potter in his dungeon had reminded him why he started this in the first place. He’d paid Raul an exorbitant amount to use the legally controlled paint and the extraordinary spells required to ensure that when Potter died, no matter how many portraits there were of him, Potter would only wake up in this one.

Patience had never been a problem for Draco; he’d had to learn from an early age to wait for what he wanted. Despite what people said about him, he wasn’t the spoilt Death Eater spawn they thought. Lucius had made him earn every single thing he’d ever had. And then some.

He’d been prepared to wait to join the Quidditch team until second year because they said first years weren’t allowed a broom of their own and what was the point of playing Quidditch for his House on a school broom that vibrated more than flew? Potter breaking the rules and being picked on the Gryffindor Quidditch team in his first year and being given a Nimbus 2000 was like sticking pins in Draco’s sense of fairness and entitlement. He’d hated Potter for that.

Fifth year, he’d patiently followed Potter’s little sycophants around for a long time to find out the location of this secret society Professor Umbridge was sure was operating right under her nose. Catching that girl off-guard was a stroke of luck. And again in sixth year when he had no hope of success, he’d patiently and painstakingly worked hard on finding a way for the Death Eaters to get into the school. As patient as he could be living in fear for the well being of his parents, that was.

Yes, he could be patient, he thought as he walked through to the dungeon portrait and saw Harry bloody Potter strung up against the wall. His wrists were bound by metal cuffs on a chain, which was attached to a ring in the ceiling. He was beautiful, really, stretched out and naked as the day he was born. Draco had been appreciative of the artwork when it had been done and now seeing it from this side, he wondered if Potter was actually gay and this artist knew Potter’s body as well as he knew his own or whether the artist just had a good imagination. He rather thought that no self-respecting artist would dare draw Potter in a bad light, looking ugly or too damaged.

His hand itched to reach out and slap the soft curve of Potter’s cheek. Hit it so hard it bruised. He wondered if Potter would actually bruise and if he did, how would it heal seeing as there was no blood flow to make the body work. And that raised further questions about how Draco’s body was working now. He was breathing, could feel a heartbeat, see the fine blue veins under the skin on his wrists, but was that because he expected to breathe, expected to be able to feel his heart beating? If he stopped breathing would he die? He’d never actually spent enough time with a portrait to know how they ‘lived’.

Draco remained where he was, several feet way from Potter and leaning against the doorway, the stone wall strangely warm under his shoulder. The temptation to hit and punch and kick and hurt Potter would be too strong if he ventured any closer. The bursting of the repressed hatred would be too much and he would be unable to stop once he started. And he wanted Potter to know what was happening to him. He wanted Potter on some level to experience this agony. If Draco could have managed this revenge while Potter was alive, he would have, but his plan of getting Potter to visit to speak about Teddy and then feeding them both the poison was dust in his memory now.

He knew this obsession with Potter would be considered illogical and irrational, but he didn’t care and it was too late now anyway. After Potter saved him twice at the final battle he had hoped that there was some chance of moving past this hatred, for he had been really grateful that Potter had taken the time, but the lacklustre effort at his sentencing had reignited the hatred with a fiery passion. He’d been only sixteen years old and unable to get away from the situation his family was in. He didn’t have the Mark, having been considered in disgrace after his failure in sixth year - a fact for which he was extremely grateful now - and he didn’t think he deserved to be shut away for a sentence longer than his mother and father received. Potter should have been able to help!

It was that day, when he arrived home to his prison for the next ten years, that he’d begun to plan his revenge. He’d commissioned the paintings the next day and set about working on his potion, just counting the days and hours and minutes until Potter was his to mess with.

Along the way, he’d discovered that he had a cousin or second cousin. Surprisingly, he’d fallen for the charms of the cheeky Metamorphmagus and if there was one person he’d miss now he was dead, it would be Teddy. And Andromeda, of course, but Teddy had cemented a permanent little niche in his heart. His only fault was that he adored Potter to distraction and would talk about him all the time, rousing Draco’s jealousy even further, because Potter got to take Teddy to the beach or the zoo or shopping. Anywhere but the Manor. Teddy never complained about not being able to go anywhere and Draco kept up a fine list of activities for them to do while Teddy visited. In the end Draco asked Teddy not to speak about Potter anymore because it made him feel bad that he couldn’t take Teddy off the Manor grounds and do interesting things together.

He gave Potter’s body a long, lingering glance, pausing over his groin area, smirking at the sheer averageness of Potter’s dick and chuckled aloud thinking how hilarious it would have been to have Potter painted with a hard-on. Those thoughts made Draco wonder if he could even get an erection here in the painting. If he remembered correctly, he’d had some decent porn magazines painted into his bedroom painting. He’d go there and test it out. It was good porn, men with massive dicks fucking pretty blond boys senseless in all sorts of contorted positions. Draco suspected he had a thing about big cocks.

Hmmm, just the thought of it made something in Draco’s groin twitch. He guessed that answered that question. Now, would he be able to come?

Potter could wait; he wasn’t going anywhere. 

 

3 

2008

Something that looked so pretty in the morning sunlight really should not have such a dark reputation, Harry thought, as he, Andromeda and Teddy approached Malfoy Manor through the main gate. Harry had extremely mixed feelings about coming back to this place after so long, considering the last time he’d been here his, Hermione’s and Ron’s lives had been in such dire peril. Sometimes when he let the cold, harsh memories too close, they infected his dreams, and Hermione’s screams as she was being tortured haunted him for a time.

It was hard to believe that such tragedies had occurred in this place when seen in this light. Some would call it a fairy tale setting, the cerulean blue sky setting off the riot of colours in the gardens, well manicured lawns sweeping grandly up to the impressive oak doors and down to a picturesque lake virtually surrounded by reeds. Even the albino peacocks seemed to fit this idyllic scene.

Perhaps Malfoy’s incarceration here had not been such arduous punishment after all.

But then he remembered the echo of Teddy’s anguish at not being able to show Malfoy his lake or not being able to go with him to special places for an outing and he realised that even the most beautiful place was still a prison if you couldn’t leave it.

When an owl arrived for him this morning asking him to accompany Andromeda and Teddy to the manor, the refusal was immediate and reflexive but he refrained from voicing it and examined his reasons instead. What he discovered was an irrational fear that he’d find himself caught in one of his recurring nightmares, waking to a reality of being chained up in the dungeons.

In the cold light of day that was impossible of course. The Manor was empty, Voldemort long dead and gone and virtually no trace of the Death Eaters left to cause any trouble. He’d laughed at himself and responded to the owl in the affirmative. Ginny hadn’t been happy about him going, asking him why he was all of a sudden interested in Malfoy again. But he wasn’t doing it for Malfoy, he was going to support Andromeda and Teddy and that was all. Okay, so he was just a little curious about Malfoy after all these years and wondered what this Malfoy whom Teddy and Andromeda loved had been like.

Malfoy had been dead a few weeks but still the Manor grounds had an expectant air, as if it had been just waiting for its master to return home. It had a different master now.

Andromeda told Harry that she didn’t intend moving here, even though Draco had left it to her in his will and it was much grander than her own small country house.

“It’s not Teddy’s home and it’s not the home I made with Ted and raised Nymphadora in,” she said. “Since the war, it’s always been Draco’s place; that’s how we’ve seen it.”

“What will you do with it?” Harry asked as one of the house-elves opened the front doors to admit them.

“Nana says I can choose whatever I like of Draco’s to keep and then she’ll board up the place for me for when I’m older if I want it,” Teddy replied soberly. Teddy had forgiven him but Harry knew he was still mourning Malfoy.

“Do you know what you want?” he asked, looking around the entry hall, trying to curb his nerves about entering the drawing room again.

“No, not yet,” Teddy replied, shaking his head and frowning.

Andromeda addressed the house-elf and it disappeared.

“Right, well we have the place to ourselves. Teddy, if you’d like to find something of Draco’s, you know where his room is.”

“What will you do?” Teddy asked his grandmother. Harry thought he could be mistaken but there was probably a little hint of apprehension in his tone. Harry didn’t think Teddy wanted to go through Draco’s things on his own.

“I need to go through Draco’s housekeeping records and forward them to the solicitors who will maintain the house for us.”

“You don’t want to put a manager in here?”

“I don’t want anyone in here that is not family,” she replied. “I can just imagine choosing the wrong person who would hold Draco’s family up to ridicule and expose his personal life to humiliation somehow.” She shook her head. “No, better to leave it to the house-elves to do the physical maintenance and the solicitor to organise everything else. When Teddy is older he can make up his own mind what he wants to do.”

Harry nodded. He had to admit that he wouldn’t want a stranger going through his things, either. “Teddy, do you want me to come with you?”

The boy nodded and Harry followed him down the hallway, up a grand sweeping staircase and along a landing to a door.

He had no idea what exactly he had been expecting; some grand opulent bedroom where even the monster-sized bed appeared lost in the sheer size of the room, he supposed. It certainly wasn’t an ordinary looking room, dominated by a huge bed and decorated, Harry would say, in early Hogwarts.

There were clothes piled on a chair in the corner, the bed was made and the pillows fluffed but there was the odd shoe left lying around the floor, several Cannons posters decorated the wall, Quidditch gear lay in another corner and the tops of the drawers were littered with books, empty sweet wrappers and scraps of paper. Someone didn’t like house-elves cleaning in here too much, he thought, amused by that curious little idiosyncrasy.

When Harry walked closer to the posters he saw that the players in them had signed them all. Wow, what Ron would give for that! Teddy moved close to him and they watched as Joey Jenkins hit a Bludger towards an opponent and stopped to wave at them before the loop ended and started over again.

“He loved this team, you know?” Teddy said.

Harry shook his head. He hadn’t known Malfoy even followed Quidditch. Harry’s eyes followed the flight of Galvin Gudgeon, an old Seeker of the Cannons in what must have been his one good match, seeing as he was normally characterised by how many opportunities he missed, once even letting the Snitch bounce off the end of his nose. That may have been the reason Malfoy liked him; in one game back in Hogwarts the Snitch had been sitting at Malfoy’s shoulder and he’d not even seen it, too busy taunting Harry at the time.

“I think I’ll keep those posters. We talked about Quidditch a lot. Just like you and I do.” Teddy gave a wan smile. “I wanted to know why he had such a useless player on his wall. You know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said that it reminded him that even the stupidest person could succeed at least once in their lives. Even Gudgeon had to have done something right to have landed the job as the Cannons Seeker, so there was a chance for him that what he had planned for the rest of his life might work.”

Harry began to think that there was something worthwhile to Malfoy. “Did he say what his plans were?”

“No, but he did say he just needed one thing to go right and he would be happy.” Teddy turned to him. “Harry, I like to think I made him happy, too, though.” Harry saw the doubt in his eyes though and he hurried to reassure the boy.

“I’m sure you did. The way your grandmother speaks, he loved you very much. He would have been talking about his future, after he could leave here. No matter how beautiful it is, it’s not freedom, is it?”

“That’s what Nana said, too.” Teddy leaned into Harry’s side and Harry put an arm around his shoulder. “I miss him already, Harry.”

Draco thought that probably the thing he missed most was music. Of an evening he’d liked sitting down in his drawing room with a large brandy and listening to beautiful notes wash over him and transport him to an emotional place he’d only ever experienced through music. The empty ballroom seemed to echo with silence and Draco found it hard to concentrate, but they’d not yet been able to give voice to inanimate objects like the Wizarding Wireless. He could make noise, talking, singing, hitting things, even playing an instrument - not that he could play any musical instrument at all - but he could not play anything prerecorded or the radio.

He’d not counted on things being so silent. In his plans, dreams, there had been the sounds of a man in pain emanating from the dungeons to keep him company and satisfy his thirst for revenge. He’d thought he could quite happily survive on those moans for years until he grew tired of the pitiful noises and disposed of Potter in some other way. Relishing the pain noises of another human had never really appeared macabre or cruel to Draco, seeing as his father had enjoyed torturing the odd Muggle and Draco had been used to those types of sounds coming from the dungeons. Inflicting that pain though was something Draco had not experienced and he’d pushed aside the niggling worry that he might not be able to administer the treatment. He’d always assumed, no, known that he would be able to make an exception for Potter.

If he thought that the Potter in his dungeons could feel pain, or if he’d remember the pain when he woke, then Draco would be down there taking out his frustrations and revenge on the body hanging in the chains, even if he got no response. He’d tried the second day. He’d walked into the dungeon with a knife in his hand, prepared to test out two theories. He wanted to know if portraits bled when they were cut or injured and he wanted to know if unanimated portraits could feel pain. What he’d discovered was that placing a cut across Potter’s wrist just below where the cuffs bound him, only left a rather grotesque looking gash. Bloodless, though. And there was no response from Potter, so therefore he could only deduce that he felt no pain from the cut.

The one thing he hadn’t planned on discovering, because he’d not thought about it, was that touching an unanimated figure in a portrait felt like touching a dead person, though strangely warmer. Warm but lifeless. Not like his mother. The one time he’d been allowed from the Manor in the whole ten years of his house arrest was the time they’d Portkeyed him to St. Mungo’s morgue to identify his mother’s body. Apparently they hadn’t found enough of Lucius to identify but his mother had remained relatively intact. When he kissed her forehead goodbye, her skin had felt cold and hard and flat, not like his mother at all. He wished he’d thought to have her painted into this scenario but, at the time, all his thoughts had been on Potter and the revenge he was going to exact and by the time he’d wished it, she was already dead and it was too late. He had a small photo of her on his bedside table but being in a portrait made it lose its animation. It was better than nothing though.

So, after the second day, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go down there again. There was something decisively wrong with seeing an unanimated Potter hanging in chains. There was no smart mouth, no fight and no spark. If there was one thing Potter was known for it was never giving up. Draco was counting on that knack Potter had of fighting back, hitting Draco’s raw nerve and goading him onto harsher punishments. He was counting on Potter’s fight and anger to fuel his own. Even the most fun activity becomes boring after a time when there’s no response.

Unfortunately, his plan had gone a fraction awry. Several times in the last few weeks he’d cursed his desire to live up to certain standards. If he hadn’t felt the need to be appropriately attired for his, and Potter’s, sudden demise then he’d not have wanted to travel to the Parisian tailor his family engaged to make their formal robes. Of course, he’d also wanted to take Teddy to Luxembourg Palace. It was his favourite place in the world, the place where his mother used to take him as a small boy to sail model boats and sit by the fountain hidden on the north side behind the trees. On sunny days he’d loved hiding under the shelter of the trees and feeding several ducks that swam on the water near the fountain. And he’d wanted to see it one more time before he died, so he could remember his mother fondly and not as he’d seen her last.

If not for his sentimental nonsense, he’d have asked Potter to the house as soon as he perfected the poison four and a half years ago. But he’d thought he could wait, never even considering that he’d be in any sort of danger on his first trip outside the Manor since his house arrest had been lifted. He had no idea who it was that killed him, had no wish to know who it was - nothing would change the permanence of his position now. He could only surmise that it was someone he or his family had caused injury to, or a family member. Revenge, the perpetual cycle, had waited a long time. Whoever it was had been patient, so now Draco could be patient as well.

In the silence.

Damn, but it was hard. He’d taken to singing to himself, humming songs he remembered, but his tone was flat and he could not carry a tune to the soaring heights his wonderful music could reach, so it left him disappointed and unfulfilled. There was a harp in the library. He’d always considered it to be an affectation, a prop, because no one in his family could play it. As far as Draco knew no one had ever played it. He’d first looked at it and thought that it would take years to train himself to the standard that he’d be happy listening to.

He took another look at it and sighed. Well, he probably had years and years ahead of him waiting until Potter croaked, so what better time than now? He could devote as much time as needed to learning to make his own magical music. Experimentally, he ran his fingers along the strings and they made a pretty, soft trill that made Draco’s fingers tingle with excitement and his ears smile in appreciation.

In the end, Teddy had chosen to keep Malfoy’s broom. Not to play Quidditch with, because Teddy loved the sport but didn’t want to play, but more because he knew it was something Malfoy loved to do. He also chose to keep all the fishing gear, which wasn’t stored in Malfoy’s bedroom, obviously, but they could collect that later.

“One day you’ll have to show me all over the manor,” said Harry as they descended the stairs, Teddy carrying Malfoy’s broom and a couple of photographs of Malfoy that had been on the bedside table. Harry would ask for a tour now, but he could see that this experience had been hard for Teddy. There must be a lot of happy memories here for him. Another time would do just as well.

The soft sounds of lilting musical notes reached his ears and he was instantly on alert. He stood still, grabbing on to Teddy and hauling him close. Despite not having to worry about attacks for a decade, it seemed old habits died hard, especially when he was trying to overcome old memories of this place.

“What was that?”

“It sounded like a harp.”

“I thought this place was empty.”

“It is. There’s a harp in the library, Nana probably strummed her fingers over it.”

Harry relaxed. Of course, what was he thinking? That there was some nefarious plot to kidnap him and hold him prisoner in chains down in the dungeon again? Stupid idiot, he told himself. He took a few deep breaths and let Teddy disentangle himself.

“You’re right, sorry about that.”

Teddy looked up at him, eyes troubled and deep blue. “I know you didn’t like Draco, but this is his house and I did like him, so please keep your mistrust to yourself. He would never have set any sort of trap that could possibly have hurt me or Nana.”

Perhaps the eyes were disappointed rather than troubled. Harry felt awful and foolish. “I seem to be apologising a lot today. I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “Coming back here brings back bad memories, that’s all. I thought I’d dealt with them, but apparently not.”

“What bad memories? From during the war?”

Harry nodded. “But those are stories for another time.” About ten years from now, Harry added silently. A ten-year-old boy just didn’t need to know that people he loved had been held captive here and hurt. When Teddy shot him a look, Harry continued. “Let’s go and collect that fishing equipment and then see if your Nana is finished. Perhaps we can stop for ice cream on the way home.”

Teddy’s eyes lit up at the mention of ice cream. “Can I get my favourite flavour?”

Harry grinned. “What is it this week?”

Teddy promptly turned his hair rainbow coloured and they both laughed as Teddy led him out to the stables where there was a room set up to store the fishing equipment.

4 

2028

He’d long ago given up any hope of company in the form of people in the Blue Ballroom. At the start he’d felt sure that when Andromeda found she’d inherited the house, she’d move in, seeing as Teddy loved the place so much, and one of them would manage to get past the wards on the doors. No one ever did. He found it hard to believe that not one person in the last twenty years had been able to - or wanted to, his traitorous brain told him - get into the room.

Over the years he’d become lonelier and lonelier, finding himself detesting even his own company. He’d learned to play the harp and spent countless hours immersing himself in the wondrous sounds he produced from it. It was something he found that he enjoyed very much and the general feeling of accomplishment that went with the knowledge was most welcome.

He often wondered what Andromeda and Teddy were doing and what they thought the harp sounds coming from the Blue Ballroom were. Perhaps they thought it was a manor ghost and had decided not to disturb it. It didn’t matter how many times he had begged the house-elves when they came to clean the Ballroom to tell someone how to get past the wards, the stupid creatures had pretended, Draco was sure, that they could not hear him and had ignored him. They refused to even acknowledge him. One day, he vowed, one day when someone got through the wards, he’d make sure those house-elves got what was coming to them.

Eventually, he’d outgrown his distaste for unanimated Potter flesh and he’d taken to spending a lot of time down in the dungeon trying to talk to Potter and watching to see if he’d wake up. Waiting to see if he was going to wake up. He’d spend hours every day just sitting on a chair he’d dragged over from the library and watching Potter.

Watching and waiting and definitely not checking him out. Although it was hard not to wonder about what he’d look like hard, what it would feel like buried deep in his arse or throat or heating up his hand as he thrust into it. After all, he was naked right in front of him and Draco was alone and lonely and, Merlin, he felt like he should at least have some sex. He didn’t want to live through eternity a virgin but sex with Potter hadn’t really been part of the equation, even if his subconscious had been telling him it might be, seeing as he’d had Potter drawn naked.

It had taken him a year to venture close enough to take Potter’s dead cock in his hand.
It was pretty awful, really, like a dead slug without the slime. He’d scrunched up his nose and persisted because this was Potter’s cock! and he wanted to know what it felt like to hold someone else’s cock in his hand. It would have been really nice had it been able to respond to the experimenting he’d done - stroking it, rubbing his thumb over the head - but he’d had to be satisfied with what was available.

The experimentation didn’t stop there and he took the opportunity to get down on his knees in front of Potter, looking up at him.

“Don’t think you’ll ever get to see me do this when you’re here,” he said, sneering. “Malfoys get on their knees for no one.”

The feeling of Potter’s dead cock on his tongue was strange and not because Draco had never had cock in his mouth before, nor because it was lifeless and a deadweight, but because it was missing something else. Smell. There was no body odour about Potter. No smell of his soap or sweat or anything. No manly musky scent of arousal.

To say he was disappointed didn’t even come close.

Each day after that, he’d been more and more reluctant to leave Potter there just in case he woke. He really wanted to see the look on Potter’s face when he woke up, chained to the dungeon wall in Malfoy manor. Apart from that, Draco would also know that Potter was dead. For a number of years, Draco had stayed in the dungeon keeping Potter company, just waiting for him to die. He’d dragged pillows and his duvet in and set them up on several cushions from the couch in the library, as his mattress had been too big to move on his own and magic didn’t work in portraits.

In that time he’d developed several habits with Potter. When he woke from sleep, Draco would greet him with “Morning, Potter, still hanging round I see.” The joke never got old and he’d chuckled to himself every morning on the way through to the kitchen for coffee and breakfast. This lasted until one morning he scared himself by imagining he heard Potter replying that if he’d just undo the cuffs, then he’d show Draco exactly what a fucking good morning felt like. And Draco knew then that he was becoming too close and too familiar with his prisoner and he should leave the dungeon. Because for one small fraction of a broken second, Draco had wished Potter really would show him what a good morning of fucking was like.

And that went beyond the pale. He didn’t want anything to do with Potter that did not involve him inflicting pain on the stupid Gryffindor. The intrinsic wrongness of what he was doing to Potter in experimenting with his cock without his consent was completely lost on him because he owned this Potter.

He would miss his daily cock sucking practice session though.

It would be much better when Potter was animated because Draco had discovered that he could indeed get a hard on, and not only that, but he could come as well. That boded well for his future and if Potter played his cards right, perhaps Draco might bestow upon him a few bloody brilliant blowjobs in between sessions with a whip.

These days he made himself lists of things to do. A nice orderly list, which consisted firstly of choosing a room in which to spend the day. He had such a wide variety of choices. He’d discounted the dungeon, preferring not to venture down there any more. And it wasn’t as if he could spend the whole day in the bathroom, though he had spent hours in there in the bath on several occasions. Once he fell sleep in the water, though, and when he woke up, his first thought was to wonder if his colours would run or fade or all blend into one congealed brown-y colour if he decided to live in the bath. The second thought was to wonder if he could drown in a painting. Not that he was planning on testing it. So now he took baths in a more timely fashion; the thought of not being able to breathe scaring him silly.

And generally the kitchen was out, too. The hot and cold buffet he’d had painted to include food he loved was always fresh, always exactly how it had been the previous day. He could chop up fruit and veg and eat it or he could slice cake or bread and make sandwiches, but he could not change the consistency of the food. In other words he could not cook his own food. Therefore it was pretty pointless sitting in the kitchen all day looking at food.

Mostly he chose the garden. Even though every day was as sunny as the previous one, he did not tan. Which was just as well, seeing as he tended to burn and then freckle anyway and Merlin forbid that after living an eternity in these portraits he be covered from head to toe in freckles like a Weasley. He shuddered at the very thought. Nothing ever changed in the gardens, though, and as much as he’d complained about winter and snow while he was alive, he’d love some snow now, just for variety. Still, the pretty colours and the warm sunshine always made him feel relaxed and pushed the boredom and insanity back to the dark recesses of his mind for a time.

Then he’d decide the activity of the day. He had several choices from reading to painting to playing his music to sitting in the garden picking flowers. It seemed rather pointless, though, as any flowers he picked would just reappear back in the garden as soon as he’d picked them. After filling every available vase in the kitchen with flowers, he’d stopped picking them because they never died. Besides, they had no perfume, either.

Apart from company and noise, smell was probably the biggest thing Draco missed. The smell of food, flowers, himself, Harry’s groin. Shit, even his farts didn’t smell. It was so much harder to enjoy his favourite coffee when he couldn’t inhale the aroma. More difficult to experience the utter bliss of Belgian chocolates when the sweet taste was there but there was no smell to enhance the event. Over the years he had grown used to it, but it had taken a long time to adjust.

At least when he used the bathroom to void his bowels, he didn’t have the accompanying aroma there to enhance that experience.

Big benefit, that.


.o0o.



“Dad, Lily says to remind you about the pictures you promised her for the article,” Al shouted through the Floo.

“No need to shout, Al, I’m right here,” Harry replied, smiling at his son.

“Er, sorry about that. Lily has some music blaring in the background here and I can barely hear a thing. Besides, you are going deaf, you know.”

“I am not. My hearing is perfect, thank you very much.”

Al rolled his eyes. “Millions of your adoring fans might believe you dad, but when I told you I was seeing Millie Bulstrode, I definitely did not say Billy.”

“Well, last I’d heard you were gay, what was I supposed to think?”

“Dad!” Al’s exasperated voice rasped across the Floo network. “I am seeing her about my Potions qualifications, not sleeping with her! She’s old! She must be your age, and as you so very correctly pointed out, I am gay and Millie is a woman.”

Harry muttered under his breath. “Well, you’d never know it to look at her.”

“That was uncalled for, Dad, she’s been good to me.”

“I know, mate. Sorry about that. Back to why you called. Tell Lily she’ll have her pictures in about an hour. I just have to wait for your mother to approve them first.”

“I will. What’s the hold up?”

Harry shrugged. He barely knew his ex wife anymore. These days her mood could swing from the amiable, likeable Ginny that he’d known since he was eleven to the bitch from hell that could easily have been mistaken for Bellatrix Lestrange on a good day. They’d parted amicably enough after realising that they had nothing to talk to each other about when the children had all gone off to school but these days Harry steered clear of her as much as he could. When Ginny became angry or moody, her bitterness rose to the surface and she tended to blame all her woes on Harry as he was generally the closest target. “I don’t know, Al. Perhaps she’s in an ‘I don’t want the public in my private life’ mood.”

Al rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell Lily she might need to just use the ones without Mum in them, then.”

“Might be best. What are you doing at Lily’s anyway? Thought you had that presentation to attend tonight?”

“Oh, I do, but I just stopped by to take back my bow tie. Lily borrowed it for that Halloween party she went to last week. I still wish you’d come tonight, Dad. It would be great to have you there.”

“I’d love to, Al, but you know the last time I attended that seminar was when your mum and I divorced. It was all over the paper and it detracted from your presentation. I don’t want that to happen again. You deserve the limelight.”

“Well if you hadn’t insisted on outing yourself with David, then you would’ve stayed out of the public eye a bit more,” Al responded wryly.

“Since when is it a crime to have a male lover?” Harry retorted though he was grinning. Perhaps it was in built in him these days, but he rather liked shocking the wizarding public. His kids and friends had been nothing but supportive and he appreciated that - and he did still date women - but occasionally he dated men, too.

“Dad! Too much information, please! I may be gay but I definitely do not want to hear about your sex life.”

Perhaps he liked shocking his kids, too. He debated whether or not to carry on the conversation, but refrained.

Harry laughed. “All right. Tell Lily to use the pictures without Mum for her spread, and both of you have a great evening. Let me know in the morning how things went.”

“I will, Dad. Although you will probably be able to read all about it in the paper in the morning, Lily said she has to get the article in before she goes home.”

“Fair enough. Behave then.”

They said goodbye and Harry returned to preparing a meal for himself and David, his dinner guest for the evening. A guest who would be arriving very shortly. David was tall and dark and absolutely, hands down, the best fuck Harry had ever had. When David spread his legs and opened himself wide, just waiting and begging with his eyes and little squirmy movements of his hips, Harry thought he’d come before even ramming himself inside. Neither of them were under any illusions; their relationship was entirely about sex. Harry was grateful that David didn’t appear to care that he was Harry Potter – perhaps the fact that he was twenty years younger than Harry made it a bit easier – and wasn’t running to the paper with stories of his prowess or otherwise. It was fun, the sex was magical and David was fairly gorgeous.

The Floo roared to life, then and for a moment Harry thought it might have been David cancelling. But the voice that called to him wasn’t male; it was Hermione. “Harry!”

The tone of her voice made him run back to the Floo and the first thing he noticed was that she still had her white Healer’s coat on. A thud of dread hit Harry. What was wrong? Was something wrong with one of his children? Had James taken a plunge off his broom at practice? He knew he should have checked out the Cannon’s brooms before letting James play with the hapless side.

“Hermione, what is it?” He rushed to kneel at the Floo.

“All the children are all right. I’m just letting you know that Andromeda died about an hour ago. Heart attack. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no! She was all right yesterday when I saw her.”

Hermione nodded, her brown eyes sympathetic. “I know. These things can come on suddenly. I’m sorry, Harry, I know how much you cared for her. We all did.”

Harry nodded too. “Thanks, Hermione. Is there anything I can do? What about Teddy?”

“We’ve sent an international communication, but that won’t be able to notify him until the morning our time. We’ve sent him an international Portkey as well so he can come straight back.”

“Will you let me know what he does? I’d like to be with him.”

“I will, though I imagine he will probably contact you himself first thing. He dotes on you, Harry, and will look to you first.”

Harry sighed, feeling awful that once more Teddy would have to go through the process of losing someone he loved. Teddy was thirty years old and a lawyer working with the activists attempting to change America’s archaic werewolf laws. But losing the person who raised him was going to be a devastating blow to him.

After Harry said goodbye to Hermione, he stood and wondered what to do in the meantime.

He felt he should head to Bill and Fleur’s place, because Teddy had Victoire with him and Bill and Fleur had grown to love Andromeda as much as they did Teddy. They were family.

He hated when people died. Really hated it.

God, how was Teddy going to cope?

5 

2028


Sighing, Harry walked the last few hundred metres to the front doors of Malfoy Manor. He felt like he’d spent the last week or so sighing. Teddy had flown back for Andromeda’s funeral, as pale and wan as he’d ever seen him. Victoire had been worried about him, confiding to Harry that Teddy was becoming even more involved as an activist, taking it upon himself to stalk people suspected of hunting werewolves in New York.

“Aren’t legal means working?” Harry had asked.

“Not fast enough for him. It took several years for anything to be done here in Britain and he thinks they should just take a leaf out of our book and adopt the same legislation.”

“I take it that won’t wash over there?” Harry had never really followed the political machinations of the American equivalent of the Ministry of Magic, so the obstacles had no meaning.

“Well, it would; that’s the thing that frustrates him so much. The laws will fit in with their current laws on magical beings, but they’re a stubborn lot and they don’t take being ‘told’ things very well.”

“Ah, yes, I do remember that about them.” Several years earlier, Harry had been trying to negotiate a reciprocal arrangement whereby he loaned the New York Magical Museum their Voldemort collection, in return for the Salem Historical section. It had appeared to Harry that it was a good swap as long as certain security requirements were adhered to. The Americans didn’t understand how vital it was to preserve the artifacts behind the wards and refused to acknowledge that Harry knew what security was needed for his own items. Needless to say, Harry was not going to trust those particular artifacts to anyone else…just in case…and so the swap never happened.

He’d tried to speak to Teddy about Victoire’s worries after the funeral, but he’d allowed himself to be reassured that Teddy would be all right. He reminded Harry that his father had been a werewolf and had spent most of his life reviled and rejected by wizarding society, only to have died a few measly years before new reforms came in that allowed werewolves the basic freedoms everyone else enjoyed.

“My dad fought for something, Harry. He devoted his life to trying to be the best he could be and when Voldemort returned, to fighting evil for the good of all wizardkind. How can I spend my life sitting on my arse when people who should know better are still discriminating against something that is part of my heritage? This is my fight and I want to devote my life to it.”

He’d spoken with such passion that Harry was swayed. Remus would have been so proud of him. His passion kindled the thought that Teddy wasn’t coming back to England any time soon.

“What will you do with your grandmother’s house and Malfoy Manor?”

Teddy had shrugged. “Sell them, I suppose.”

“Your grandmother’s, too?” He’d been shocked. He’d have thought Teddy would at least keep the home he’d grown up in.

“I’m not coming back, Harry. My life is in the States now and the money will come in handy for the rights movement.”

“Wow.” Part of Harry had still seen Teddy’s time overseas as his ‘adventure’ and that he’d be home sooner or later to begin his ‘real’ life.

“We’ll still come back for visits, but we won’t be living here again.” Teddy had become a very serious, passionate man. Which Harry already knew, of course, but he’d not realised just how dedicated Teddy was.

He had given Teddy a small smile. “We’ll all miss you, you know?”

Teddy had grinned. “I’ve been gone for five years, Harry. Either people have already been missing me or they haven’t.”

“It seems like this time when you leave it will be permanent, though,” Harry had amended.

“It’s always been permanent,” Teddy had replied, giving Harry a steady look with his serious dark brown eyes.

Nodding, Harry had hugged him and wished him all the best.

“You can gut the Manor for anything you’d like for the museum, Harry,” Teddy had added. “I took whatever I wanted from Draco’s place when he died. I’m sure that there must be hundreds of things secreted away in that place that have historical significance.”

“Thanks, Teddy,” Harry had replied, grateful he’d been given first option. “I’ll pay market price for anything I take though.”

“No, you won’t.” Teddy was dismissive. “With the sale of both properties I’ll have more money than I could ever spend; I have no need for it.”

“I can afford it.” Over the years he had risen through the ranks at the museum to be the director, earning a ridiculously high salary that was more than he could possibly want to spend. Alongside the estates his parents and Sirius had left him, Harry was an extremely wealthy man. The Ministry had decided to privatise the museum three years ago and naturally had offered the whole thing, lock, stock and barrel, for what Harry considered to be a very reasonable price. So, he’d purchased it, being more than happy with his career path.

“I know. Consider it my contribution to history. Malfoy’s manor and money never meant all that much to me; it was more about the person who lived there. I still miss him.”

“You still have his broom?”

Teddy had nodded. “I still fly it, too, when I get all nostalgic.”

They’d spent some time reminiscing about Malfoy and about Andromeda and speaking about what a wonderful person she was and how well she’d looked after and raised Teddy. It suddenly occurred to Harry that Teddy was really an orphan now. There were no Blacks or, by association, Malfoys left alive and Ted had had no relatives either, so Teddy was left without blood family.

Hence the sighing. Harry worried about him. He had Victoire and he was thirty years old, a man in anyone’s language - Harry knew that - but Teddy was Harry’s godson and as it was with his own children, Harry worried.

And now seeing the Manor looking almost exactly as it had done twenty years ago, he wished there was some way to go back in time and do things differently, do things again just to have had more time with Andromeda, make his peace with Ginny instead of just letting things drift away, experience his children’s childhoods all over again.

It was likely that this Manor was going to be a solid imposing structure for countless generations. Much like Hogwarts, it seemed indestructible, free from the confines and destructive nature of time. People were born, grew up and died, but these places of bricks and mortar and not a little magic seemed to be eternal. No matter what hideous, vile acts had been committed in this place - and Harry was sure there were hundreds of them in its history - there had been people living in the house. They’d had lives and families and children and careers and a story.

Suddenly nostalgic, he wanted to gather his children around him and ask them about their stories, their childhoods. Had they been happy? Did they have milestones in their lives that they marked time with? Harry had two. The war and his divorce. Up until he and Ginny divorced, everything in his history was before or after the war. It was a timestamp in history for everyone, not just Harry’s personal one. With Ginny, it was family matters. They were time stamped with before or after the divorce. Discovering he might be bisexual was after the divorce. Finding out the hard way that Al was gay – read accidentally opening Al’s bedroom door at just the wrong moment – was before the divorce.

Did his children appreciate Hogwarts like he had? Was it something to be borne, leaving home and heading to boarding school for most of the year, or was it an adventure that they couldn’t wait to have? Hogwarts had meant rescue and home to Harry, though he assumed, hoped, that it had only meant school for his children and that he’d given them their haven and home with him. Had they missed him?

He didn’t see them much now; they had their own lives to live, though they did stay in contact as much as they could. But they were all busy working hard at their chosen careers.

He wondered why he was feeling so melancholy and reminiscing about the past so much. Perhaps it was Andromeda’s mortality that reminded him that he’d passed out of that youthful phase of his life and into the middle years. Though wizards tended to live longer lives than Muggles, they didn’t always, and Harry often felt the encroachment of age-related health issues arising from his early years of being severely malnourished. They had taken their toll on his body and, while he had recovered, he was fairly certain that there would have been damage he would be paying for at the end of his life.

One of the house-elves opened the door as he approached it. As far as Harry could see it was the same one as twenty years ago.

“Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Master Teddy is telling us to let you in and you is removing things from the Manor.”

“Yes, er…I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” Harry said, stepping inside.

“I is Tilly, sir,” Tilly squeaked and bowed. Tilly was male, then. Sometimes it was the only way Harry could tell as the females curtsied rather than bowed.

“Tilly, pleasure to meet you,” Harry said, smiling.

“Mr. Harry Potter is too kind,” Tilly said, flustered.

“Did Master Teddy give you any other instructions?”

Tilly nodded. “Master Teddy is telling Tilly and the other house-elves that we is to be giving you whatever you is wanting and then we is to keep the place looking nice until it is sold.” Tilly wore a frown on his face.

Harry was about to ask what was wrong, when he realised what it must be. “Tilly, what will happen to you all when the Manor is sold?”

“Tilly has no idea, sir,” Tilly replied, only just managing not to wail.

“I’m sure Master Teddy or the solicitor will know,” Harry said kindly, patting the small elf on his shoulder. He had no idea what happened to house-elves when their masters sold the house and moved to a different country.

The small elf lifted a corner of the clean tea towel he was wearing and wiped at his eyes, before disappearing.

Harry spent the next few hours searching through all the rooms, hoping he didn’t get lost in the sheer size of the manor. He tagged several pieces that he thought had historical significance to come back for later on. There were also a few Dark objects Harry debated over tagging, deciding in the end that these objects were better off in a museum where people could only look, rather than being on the open market for anyone to purchase and misuse.

On occasion he thought he heard music coming from somewhere in the Manor. It brought back memories of when he’d been here last – a harp in the library, Teddy had said. Harry had seen the harp in the library and tagged it for keeping, as it appeared to be a pre-Christian Persian instrument. But this time he didn’t think the noise came from the library; it seemed to be in the wrong direction for that.

Following his ears he found himself in a much grander entrance hall than where he’d entered the Manor. From the windows either side of the massive doors, he could see a huge circular driveway – something he’d missed last time he’d been here. Perhaps this area was used for formal functions.

Two doors stood closed at the end of the hall opposite the front doors and the music seemed to be coming from within. He reached out to open them but they wouldn’t budge. He retrieved his wand and used every unlocking spell he knew on the doors, but they remained shut. After thinking what else he could do to open the doors without destroying them, he kicked himself and realised that he should have checked for wards. He just hadn’t thought that wards were needed inside a house.

A wave of his wand showed the intricate swirls of the spells surrounding the door. They weren’t that difficult to unravel. Harry was used to unraveling wards from around magical items that were located in the strangest places and protected by all sort of amateur wards. Years ago, back when he first began working for WHAM, he’d employed the services of Bill Weasley, curse breaker, to assist him in working his way through wards. These days he needed no help.

The music had stopped and Harry wondered what lay behind the doors. Quite probably it was just an empty room that was inhabited by a ghost, which was why it had been warded shut. But if there was music, then it sounded like there might be another harp in there.

When he opened the doors wide, it was almost an anticlimax. Almost, because the room was at least the size of Hogwarts’ Great Hall. It was obviously a ballroom, as the floors were polished wood and there were several huge chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. On one side there was a raised section for an orchestra and the dance floor had been sectioned off by a different pattern of flooring. Elegant columns rose from the floor to the ceiling, which was charmed to show an inky blue night sky full of stars.

A voice startled him out of his awed study of the room.

“Oh, bloody fucking hell, I might have known it would be you!”


.o0o.


Draco had heard the racket from outside before the doors had finally been opened, so at least he’d been prepared and wasn’t caught in his bath or wanking on his bed or worse, sucking on Potter’s cock.

He wasn’t actually prepared for it to be Potter, though he really should have known. Potter always seemed to be around; Potter always seemed to be able to get one up on Draco. Always.

“Can’t leave me alone even after I’m dead, can you, Potter?” he carried on, seeing as Potter was standing there looking like a stunned Flobberworm.

“Malfoy?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Still as eloquent as ever, I see, though you have greyed considerably.”

“Oh, shut up. Just because you’ll always look like a pointy albino lizard doesn’t make you any better off than me. People tell me it’s distinguished.”

“Distinguished doesn’t make up for those glasses you insist on wearing. Why you never had your eyes corrected is beyond me. One would think you were ashamed of being a wizard.”

“I am not ashamed of being a wizard.” Harry frowned. Why was he standing here listening to a portrait of Malfoy spouting off, looking and sounding the same as he had last time he’d seen him?

“You’re a disgrace, Potter.” Draco stood in his library, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Potter with as much disgust in his look as he could manage – hiding that he was actually rather grateful for the company, not that he’d ever admit that.

“Right, well there’s nothing here that I want, so I’ll be off now. I imagine there’ll be someone along to remove all the portraits to some storage facility, soon.”

Wait…Potter wasn’t going? He’d only just arrived! And what was this about being moved?

“Potter, what are you talking about?”

“Oh, you might not be aware. Andromeda died last week and Teddy’s selling the manor. I’m here to remove anything of historical significance for the museum before the rest is all catalogued and sold.”

“Andromeda?” Draco’s face dropped and he fell down into a chair.

“Yes,” Potter said, nodding. “She died of a heart attack about a week ago.”

“How’s Teddy?” Draco knew on one level that as it had been twenty years since he’d seen them both, it meant that they’d aged and lived their lives without him, but it had never really hit home that they’d lived their lives without him. They’d moved on. And here he was, dead, stuck in a portrait, and he'd not had any involvement with them for twenty years.

“Grieving, of course. She was the only mother he ever knew.”

Draco nodded. It was such a shock, though. He’d always thought that he’d be happy to speak to the first person to make it through the wards. It was conflicting that the first person to come through was Potter with bad news, because he wanted more news, wanted to know everything that had happened in the last twenty years, but he didn’t want to hear it from Potter! He’d have thought Teddy or Andromeda, not Potter, and now it looked like Teddy wasn’t even going to come here anyway. Never. His heart did a flip as those words sank in. It meant that he’d have to bite down his hatred and ask Potter.

“Tell me about Teddy. What’s he been doing all these years?”

“You remember everything from before you died?”

Draco nodded. That was another question he’d have to ask Potter. Who had killed him? And why?

Potter ran a hand through his greying hair. At least that was one thing Draco would never have to worry about, he thought, grasping on to something that made him feel normal.

“Well, he grew up well. Went to Hogwarts, studied with several noted solicitors and obtained his qualifications. He’s married to Victoire, Bill and Fleur Weasley’s eldest.”

Draco looked up, scandalised. “He married a Weasley?”

“No need to look down your nose, Malfoy. You ought to be grateful that particular Weasley survived you letting Greyback into Hogwarts or you’d have been with your parents in Azkaban.”

“What difference would that make, Potter?” Draco sneered. “I’m still dead.”

Potter backed off at that and Draco took a moment to feel the satisfaction at seeing the bloody wonderful Dick Who Lived feeling awkward. It left him grinning smugly at his sarcasm, knowing it could still cut the prat.

He pushed away the memory of the awful sickening feeling he’d had when he realised that Greyback had come through the Vanishing Cabinet and into Hogwarts. Weasley had obviously recovered sufficiently to marry the beautiful Veela and sire children. Which was more than he’d been able to do, Draco thought sadly, his grin deflated by his past.

“So, is Teddy here? I’d really love to see him after all this time. I didn’t expect it to take so long for someone to break through the wards.” Draco thought a subject change might help the atmosphere a little.

“He’s in London, sorting out Andromeda’s final wishes.”

“Tell him to come and see me when he’s finished; I’d like to pay my respects to him about Andromeda. I’m sorry he lost her.”

“I’ll pass it on to him.”

Draco couldn’t wait to see Teddy again. He couldn’t take him flying or fishing in the lake or even hug him, but they could spend time together now that the wards were down. As soon as he thought that, he stopped, frowning. If Teddy was selling then he’d be moved to different quarters.

He didn’t even think about the portrait of Potter chained up in the dungeons; the one that Potter obviously hadn’t spotted yet.

“Why is Teddy selling? I’d have thought that after twenty years the manor would have felt like home,” Draco asked.

“Oh, he’s never lived here,” Potter replied, shaking Draco to the core. “No one’s lived here since you died. Teddy lives in America now with Victoire, campaigning for werewolf rights. He’s selling everything and returning to the States.”

No! Draco’s brain was screaming out. How could he sell Malfoy Manor? There’d be people, other people, not Malfoys, running this place and they’d probably be half-bloods or Mudbloods getting their dirty, sticky fingers over everything he held dear, everything that had ever meant anything to him. How could Teddy do this? The betrayal sat heavily in his chest and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was going to pass out. There were black spots in front of his eyes and he blinked hard trying to clear them away. The manor was supposed to be kept in the family. Andromeda was a Black, the closest family he had, and Teddy was her grandchild. Also family. It was tradition; the house stayed in the family no matter what.

“You look a little shocked, Malfoy.”

“He can’t sell the Manor, Potter; he can’t.”

“I think you’ll find he can do what he likes, Malfoy.” Potter was scowling, and had Draco felt less like screaming, he might have laughed at the way Potter’s eyebrows almost met in the middle of his face when he scowled.

“You don’t understand,” Draco retorted. “Malfoy Manor has always been in family hands. It’s traditionally only been owned by family. Countless generations have lived here, grown up, married, had children and died here. It’s one long line of history, a continuance of a line that dates back to Merlin. You couldn’t possibly understand that, Potter.”

“But Teddy isn’t a Malfoy. He has Black blood in him, but no Malfoy blood.”

“It doesn’t matter. There have been ancestors of mine living here before that weren’t Malfoys. But they were still related directly through marriage. They adopt the Malfoy name to keep the line unbroken.”

Potter snorted and if Draco could have jumped through the portrait to punch him in the nose, then he would have. He couldn’t expect an imbecile like Potter to understand anything about the importance of an ancestral line. “You put way too much importance on a family name, Malfoy; you always did, and look where it got you.”

“And you put too little importance on the value of a name, Potter. If I remember correctly it was because of your refusal to pay respect to the Dark Lord’s name that you got yourself captured and your… Granger tortured by my aunt.”

The silence rang loudly in the Ballroom as Draco’s voice echoed away. For several seconds it dragged on, becoming heavier and heavier to bear, until Draco thought he might scream from the pressure.

Eventually, Potter took a deep breath and broke the silence. “Be that as it may, I have no influence when it comes to Teddy. I can’t make him not sell the Manor.”

“Will you at least try? What will happen to me if he does? What will happen to the rest of the things in the Manor? Most of them are centuries old.”

“I own the Wizarding Historical Archive and Museum and I’ve tagged several pieces we’re interested in. I’ll be buying them from Teddy. The rest, as I said before, will be catalogued and sold. I have no idea what will happen to you if no one buys you.”

Draco hung his head in his hands. He’d gone through ten years of bitter loneliness, broken only by the bright highlights of Teddy’s visits, and pinned at the seams by this burning need for revenge. Then he’d suffered twenty years of utter aloneness. Now it seemed like all of his plans had been dashed upon the rocks of Teddy’s betrayal.

He didn’t see Potter peering closer to the paintings.

“Malfoy! Why is there a painting of me chained up in the dungeons?”

6 

2028


Harry had to admit that finding a portrait of Malfoy hanging in the ballroom had surprised him. And he’d tried to see what Teddy saw in Malfoy, really he had, but as far as he could tell Malfoy was just the same obnoxious git he’d always been. Mostly. When Malfoy spoke of Teddy, Harry could see that he had genuine regard for his nephew. It softened his face considerably into one that might be thought of as pleasant. He looked much like he had at the end of the war, only healthier, so Harry assumed that the paintings had been done at that stage.

Discovering the portrait of himself had been like a kick in the stomach, and had made his fingertips tingle with the rush of the adrenaline shock. For one moment, a sharp moment that blurred the edges of where he was, he thought it was some trick and he was going to find himself taking the place of the image in the portrait, chained up against the wall. Just like in his nightmares.

But common sense, when it kicked in, told him that there was no magic known that would transport him into the portrait.

No, he was quite safe, but he still wanted an explanation.

Then he took great satisfaction in seeing how drawn and panicked Malfoy looked. When Malfoy only offered a feeble ‘just a bit of fun’ in response, Harry shook his head and chided himself. Malfoy was only a portrait and he shouldn’t let him get under his skin. Harry rather thought that he’d shocked Malfoy enough today as it was. Even if he was a portrait, it couldn’t be easy to hear that he’d been more alone than he knew for the last twenty years, that someone he cared about was dead and the other had no regard for family tradition.

Despite Harry not holding with a lot of pureblood traditions, he could feel for Malfoy in this case. The ancestral home should be something that the family could always count on. Always. And Harry’s tough beginnings and lack of security in his early years had forged a need for him to feel a connection to the past; to try and remember where he came from and pay tribute to that and their contribution to who he was.

So, he could quite see Malfoy’s point, although he’d not admit that too easily.

“So, you’ve had no visitors since you died, then?” Harry asked.

“No,” Malfoy replied warily. “I admit, I expected Andromeda or Teddy to break the wards, but if they didn’t even live here…”

“It wasn’t their home. Teddy was only ten and she didn’t want to upset him more by moving in here to a place that was full of memories of you.”

Malfoy nodded. “I can understand that, now, I just assumed…”

“Andromeda had many reasons to like and admire you, but she had no love for your family. After all, she was disowned by the Blacks and ignored by your mother. You can hardly expect her to live in a house where she hadn’t been welcome and where, had he still been alive and given the choice, your father would have had Teddy put down.”

“I know, I know,” Malfoy replied irritably. He stood and walked through to the library and poured brandy into one of the large balloons on the sideboard. He swirled it round the glass, sniffed it and then swallowed the liquid in one mouthful.

“Damned thing,” said Malfoy, waving the empty glass at Harry. “Nothing smells in here, so I don’t know why I bother sniffing it before I drink.”

“Nothing at all smells?” asked Harry, fascinated, despite himself. He’d never thought about the mechanics of portraits before.

“Even my shit doesn’t stink, Potter.” Malfoy smirked at him and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“So, what else is new? You never thought your shit stank. Your nose was always so high in the air, even if it had stunk like hippogriff droppings you’d never have smelled it.”

Malfoy actually laughed at that while he poured himself another brandy. A double this time. “Touché, Potter,” he said, raising the half full glass in salute to Harry then downing that in two gulps.

“Er, don’t you think you should slow down?” Harry asked.

“What for? You think I’ll damage my liver and die? Oh, no, I should never drink again.” Malfoy placed his free hand over his heart and affected a swoon of sorts.

“Whatever, Malfoy.” Harry narrowed his eyes. Trust Malfoy to be a dick.

“I can get as sloshed as I like and pass out. In the morning the levels of alcohol in the decanters will be as they were before I started drinking. I will not have a hangover and I will feel no ill effects healthwise. Nothing in these portraits can kill me, Potter,” Malfoy said, waving his arms around as he spoke. “I am fucking immortal.”

Malfoy gave a small giggle while he picked up the brandy decanter and slumped down on the couch with it in his hand, swigging from it directly. “Fancy having to wait until I’m dead to become immortal. Perhaps Voldemort should have done that, too. I hope to Merlin you lot found and destroyed any and all portraits of him, even as a child, or he’ll find some way of gathering followers again and then, bam, you’re right back where you were all those years ago.”

Malfoy was kind of funny when he was slightly sloshed. Harry didn’t think he’d had enough to make him actually drunk as such, just enough to loosen his tongue.

“His followers are mostly dead, Malfoy. No need to worry about that. Besides, he would be powerless in a portrait. People followed him because they were afraid, not because he was an inspirational leader. They’re not stupid enough to get sucked in by a portrait Voldemort.”

“Giants are pretty stupid, Potter, or have you forgotten what they did at Azkaban?”

“I haven’t forgotten, no, but they weren’t acting on the orders of anyone there. They just…misinterpreted an order. It was accidental. I know it doesn’t justify anything, nor bring your parents back, but they weren’t under Voldemort’s thrall. He is dead and gone, trust me.”

Malfoy snorted. “Trust you?” He took another drink. “I tried that, but I still ended up being imprisoned for ten years. I think I would have preferred to go to Azkaban.”

“You would have died with your parents, then. A lot earlier than you did die.”

“So? You think I enjoyed being restricted to the Manor and the grounds? With no family, no visitors, no friends? Dying with them would have been better than what you confined me to. I was helpless and had nothing to look forward to, to hope for, until Teddy and Andromeda came to visit. They were the one bright little spark in my bleak existence and I’d have done anything for them but my hands were tied. I could do nothing but leave them everything I owned when I died. And they…threw it back in my face, Potter! Neither of them appreciated what I gave them.”

Harry could see shiny tears gathering at the corners of Malfoy’s eyes and so he looked away to give the boy time to collect himself. “They had their own lives, Malfoy, and I suspect they didn’t expect you to die when you did.”

“Neither did I. And they might have had their own lives, but they were all I had. They were everything to me.”

And there was the crux of it, Harry knew. In Malfoy’s reduced world, Teddy and Andromeda were all he had other than his family traditions. And those family traditions had all but caused the situation he found himself in. Harry didn’t know what to say to a Malfoy he felt sorry for. He imagined had Malfoy been alive and in the room that he’d have just tried to ignore him or, the little voice of honesty in the back of his head spoke up, he’d have told Malfoy not to expect any sympathy.

But a portrait was different. Face to face with a live Malfoy was a fair fight and Harry would give as much as he needed to battle it out with Malfoy. Just as they’d always done. But with Malfoy a portrait, the inherent unfairness of their respective positions became more evident. Malfoy was to exist for the foreseeable future in a world where he had no say in anything, no control over even his environment, let alone the actions or emotions of anyone else. And he had to do it in solitude.

Feeling sorry for Malfoy wasn’t an entirely new feeling, though. He remembered feeling sorry for him during the war when he’d seen through his connection with Voldemort how Malfoy had been forced to torture people and how scared he’d been the whole time.

Wanting to do something to help was a new feeling, though. He questioned himself about his motivations. After all, what did he care if a portrait was happy? Surely he’d done enough while Malfoy was alive in testifying to keep him out of Azkaban? Malfoy was dead, why did it matter that a damned portrait was unhappy?

He sighed. It just did. Perhaps he felt more strongly about the links to the past than he’d thought and perhaps he thought it not such a good idea for Teddy to sell the Manor. Teddy was thirty years old and a man with his own life and future, but Harry had to wonder if at some point Teddy would return to England. His activism would result in new werewolf laws eventually. And then what would Teddy do in America?

“I’ll talk to Teddy and see if he will delay a decision on selling the Manor for a while.”

Malfoy looked up blearily through the collected tears. He didn’t say anything and Harry was grateful. Receiving thanks from a Malfoy might mean Hell had frozen over or something. A nod was as far as Malfoy went.

Harry stood in the silence for several moments not sure of what else to say. He and Malfoy had never been friends and so they couldn’t ‘catch up’ with each other. They had little in common, either. His glance around the room showed that there were no other portraits of people at all. Malfoy really had been alone.

“Why did you have your portrait hung in here and not with the rest of your ancestors?” he asked.

“Would you want to spend eternity hung next to my father or his father?”

Malfoy must have seen the grimace on his face, because he laughed. “Neither did I. You really knew very little about me, did you, Potter.”

“I could say the same about you,” Harry retorted.

“But that’s where you’re wrong.” Malfoy waved the decanter around again. “I had several years watching you to see who you really are.”

“I suspect you only saw what you wanted to see, Malfoy.”

“Ah, Potter, come now, I know that you secretly loved all the attention. You pretended modesty and humility but you never stood back from an opportunity to rub your propensity for rule flouting and your so called righteousness in other people’s faces. Mine in particular. Don’t think I didn’t notice the blatant sucking up to Slughorn in sixth year just to get an invite to his ridiculous club.”

“I did no such thing,” Harry replied hotly. “I hated all that – See? I knew you had no idea.”

Harry remembered Malfoy crashing the one Slug Club function Harry had attended. He’d have handed Malfoy his invitation if it had allowed him to get out of going. He would have wished Malfoy well and hoped he died of boredom. Knowing Malfoy he’d have enjoyed it.

Malfoy windmilled his arms, sending drops of the brandy flying around the room. “No matter, no matter. All gone, over and done with and I’m dead now so it can hardly matter if I know you or not, seeing as this will be the last time you see me anyway.”

Draco’s eyes turned sly. “Unless of course, you’re going to visit me in the dungeon after you die.”

He watched Potter shudder and almost cackled. But cackling wouldn’t be very dignified, no matter how much he’d had to drink. Which wasn’t all that much, because he was still conscious. Well, what passed for conscious in a portrait.

And he probably should change the subject anyway, because Potter had been fairly decent about seeing himself naked and chained up in Draco’s dungeon, but he hardly thought that would continue if he let slip that the dungeon was the only place Potter was going to ‘wake up’ in when he died. Draco allowed himself a small giggle instead.

“Scared of the dungeon, Potter?”

“Nightmare stuff,” Potter said grimly. “I can tell you it will need to be a cold day in hell before you’ll find me in your dungeon when I die. Honestly, Malfoy, couldn’t you have left me some clothes?”

“Ah well, I have to admit to thinking that naked added to the humiliation when I commissioned it.” That wouldn’t give too much away.

“Obviously the artist had no idea of what I looked like naked,” Potter replied, leaning closer for a closer look at himself. Draco giggled.

“I think he was probably rather generous. You’re very average, aren’t you?”

Potter laughed, which surprised Draco. Weren’t men supposed to brag about the size of their dicks? What self-respecting male didn’t care if someone thought their equipment was only average?

“What are you laughing at?” Draco grouched as he took another swig at his brandy. He was a little unsteady on his feet but he would rather think of it as swaying gracefully in time with an inner music.

“You,” replied Potter. “Anyone would think you had an unhealthy fascination with me.”

Oh, now that was just wrong. Draco hated Potter with all that he was. He suddenly remembered that hate and he sneered, forgetting that Potter was the only person he’d spoken to for twenty years and had secretly been glad for the company. He refrained from releasing a scathing verbal attack on the stupid, old Potter, who still had the ridiculous hair, the bloody woeful glasses and an attitude the size of England. He was sober enough to know that once he started, he’d not stop until he’d admitted his whole plan and that wouldn’t do him any good. Potter would just have the portrait of himself in the dungeons burnt or destroyed somehow and then where would he be? Confined to solitude for the rest of forever. With no chance of revenge.

No, this time, alcohol fuelled or not, he would keep his damned mouth shut if he wanted any chance of his adjusted plan succeeding.

“I do not have a fascination with the size of your dick,” he blurted, despite himself. Oh, fuck. He supposed at least it was better than admitting he’d knelt before Potter more times than he could count and had sucked on that ‘average’ sized dick just for practice. And definitely better than saying he wished his portrait Potter could have erections. There was a small silver lining there.

“Whatever you say,” replied Potter, laughing again, which infuriated Draco. How dare he?

Merlin, how he hated Potter. 
 

7 

2029


Dear Harry,

Thanks for sending over the supply of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. The imitation ones that you can buy here are really inadequate; they just don’t manage to get the right tang to the lemon ones for some reason.

Vic sends you her love and asks if you wouldn’t mind keeping a special eye on her dad. When he and Fleur were here a few months ago, Bill didn’t look at all well. She worries about his sporadic health issues; even though he claims to be well it’s obvious that something is not quite right. Vic thinks, well we both think, that he might respond better to an offer of help from you rather than anyone else in the family. Knowing Bill, he’ll not want to give his mum any more worry. That whole family has the art of the stiff upper lip down perfectly and it’s hard to get past it.

Anyway, it’s so hard to do anything from so far away but I trust you to do what you think right.

I’m not sure if James has written to you since he’s been here, but if not, he’s doing well. The rookie team seems to be creating quite a stir here, where even after so long the Americans remember your name, so James has been feted around town like a celebrity. I hope his Quidditch talent can handle his ego. They won their first game by the skin of James’ Seeking ability. His catching the Snitch won them the game by a mere ten points.

If you can find a way of doing it tactfully, I’d be warning Lily about that Mattie Jamieson. I know she thinks he can do no wrong – love is blind so they say – but he’s been spotted in several nightclubs with a particular blonde on his arm. It may all be completely innocent, but one of my clients mentioned that he’d seen the blonde – the daughter of a prominent politician – leaving the hotel where the team’s staying at 3am looking decidedly mussed. He might be just having one last wild fling before going back to England and settling with the lovely Lily, but it doesn’t hurt to be forewarned.

How’s Al doing? You’ll have to let me know how his research is progressing on the Wolfsbane – oh, well I guess I can follow that up with him, myself.

I still want to sell the Manor. We’ve given it almost a year to think about, as you requested, but our lives are here, now. For better or worse we’ve thrown our lot in with this lot and we’re happy. We won’t be coming back. I know that’s hard for you to hear, but you’ll always be my godfather and you’ll always be able to visit us, stay with us, whatever you like. And we’ll be visiting you, too, from time to time, but we’ll never live in England again.

I’m not sure what the solution is about Draco’s portraits, though. You could always keep them, you know. I’m sure he’d be over the moon to be hanging up on your walls. I say that with complete sincerity. And I am sure you can hear my sarcasm all the way across the ocean.

In all seriousness, I don’t know what to do with him. Are you sure the museum can’t take him? I don’t like the idea of his portrait being destroyed, that’s all, though I am pretty sure you want that one of you taken care of, right? That was definitely something I didn’t need to see, though I imagine some of your fans might want to keep that for posterity.

All right, Vic is calling me for dinner.

Love to all

Teddy.

Harry sat back thoughtfully, fingers running absently over the parchment of Teddy’s letter. The news of Teddy and Victoire’s decision wasn’t totally unexpected but it did highlight that he was still no closer to deciding what to do than he had been a year ago.

The logical thing would be to destroy the portrait of him and let the new owners of the Manor decide what to do with Malfoy’s paintings.

For some reason, the thought of strangers in the Manor didn’t sit right with him, though he’d stopped examining his motivations for attempting to stop Teddy selling it a long time ago. Mostly because he couldn’t understand them and it made him feel uncomfortable. There were some things about pureblood traditions that were worthwhile, after all. An inherent connection with a person’s history and the stories handed down through generations giving one a sense of their place in the world, for one. Harry wasn’t sure that Teddy should give up his links to that side of his family so easily.

The Manor was lovely and Teddy’s connection to Malfoy was through marriage only, but Teddy had loved the Manor as a child and had loved Malfoy, and to see him virtually forget that was rather sad, Harry thought.

He and Malfoy had reached a kind of… almost truce. Harry visited him perhaps once a week and Malfoy tried not to piss Harry off. Harry was not above threatening to never come back if Malfoy got him too angry, so he’d reined in his worst vitriol, for which Harry was grateful.

Teddy’s words came back to him about taking Malfoy’s portraits and a small smirk played around Harry’s lips when he thought of Malfoy hanging in the spare room of his flat. The room that the kids, who weren’t kids any longer, used when they visited. The room that any number of passing through Weasleys used from time to time.

Malfoy would rather die, Harry thought snidely, but then was pulled up short because Malfoy was already dead and he was talking about a portrait.

Still, unless he wanted Malfoy to behave like old Walburga Black and screech every time someone entered the flat, he’d better think of another solution.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed at the rest of the news. When Al confided to Harry months ago that he’d seen Mattie out for dinner with different women after he’d told Lily he was working, Harry had wanted to punch the man’s face. No one treated his daughter like that! His first instinct had been to confront Mattie, but he’d been at the other end of the country preparing for the National League Cup and Lily had been with him in any case.

His second instinct was to tell Lily what Al had seen. Much better to have her hurt for a little bit now than to wait until it was too late and Lily was in love with the dickhead when she’d be devastated even more. Heartbreak was something he’d really tried to spare his kids. He thought he’d done pretty well considering the divorce and the publicity about his dating habits since then.

Al had warned Lily about her boyfriend Mattie several times but Lily had refused to listen and had in fact berated Al and not spoken to him for a month. With this new evidence of Mattie straying, it appeared that cheating on Lily was not going to be a one-time thing. As a result he was in two minds as to what to do. Apart from be there to pick up the pieces when, if, the worst happened.

Light hands on his shoulders gave him about a second of warning to tilt his head, exposing his neck, before Jeremy swooped in to nuzzle at his throat. God, the man did wickedly delicious things with his tongue. Harry almost always felt like he would be quite happy to just submit to being continuously licked like an ice cream until he melted completely away. Some days he did just that. Today was not one of those days, however, he had too much on his mind.

“You all right, love?” asked Jeremy while he nibbled on Harry’s ear, soft golden hair brushing Harry’s shoulder.

“Hmm, why do you ask?”

“You’ve been sitting over here scowling and frowning and sighing like you received bad news, for an hour now.”

“Just a letter from Teddy, that’s all. He’s decided to sell Malfoy Manor after all.”

“Good.” Harry felt the tip of a tongue trace the curl of his ear and he shivered, despite the grumble of irritation that swept through him. Jeremy had no love for the Malfoy family. Not that Draco had done anything to Jeremy or his family. Jeremy had been a baby when Draco died. Harry thought Jeremy might have been jealous that Harry cared about Malfoy’s portrait and his Manor. Either that or he was jealous of the close bond he and Teddy had and saw that selling the Manor cemented Teddy staying away in America.

Harry had no idea where the jealousy could have come from. He’d never thought of Teddy as anything but his godson; was mildly nauseated when he tried to. Besides, Teddy was over thirty and Harry liked his male partners a bit younger than that. It might seem shallow to some, but he found that male partners his own age couldn’t keep up with him. Generally. His justification to himself was that he’d discovered men fairly late in his sexual life and he was making up for the lost years. In reality, they just happened to be the ones he was attracted to.

With a tongue like Jeremy’s he’d put up with the jealousy, though. Christ, all the hair on his arms was standing to attention and sending waves of heat to his groin with just a few moments of attention. Jeremy’s hand slipped around to cup the bulge in Harry’s trousers and Harry groaned. Oh, fuck what was on his mind, it could wait until he remembered what it was again. His legs spread and he leant back on the chair and rolled his hips into Jeremy’s capable hand, hardening even as his mind blanked and concentrated on that evil tongue and that frustrating hand that was nowhere near where he wanted it.

“You had better be prepared and stretched for me, or I’ll be really angry,” he growled. Jeremy knew him well enough to know that Harry was teasing but he also knew that Jeremy knew better than to initiate something like this without previously having stretched and lubed himself in preparation.

“You know me better than that, Master.” The voice soft and purring in his ear held a teasing tone as the use of the term ‘Master’ always made Harry’s blood boil and the sex rough and hard as Harry tried to fuck the insubordination out of him.

Harry snaked a hand up behind Jeremy’s neck and grabbed a handful of the long golden locks. He yanked hard, pulling Jeremy around and onto his lap, where he was most pleased to see his pretty golden boy naked and very hard, his red leaking prick quivering against his belly.

“Cheeky fucking slut,” he hissed, flipping Jeremy off his knee and onto the floor, where he landed awkwardly with a squawk before righting himself onto all fours and wiggling his arse at Harry, taunting him.

Harry whacked his cheeky arse several times, smiling as his handprints stood out deeply red against the tawny golden skin of his lover.

“Come on, Harry, you’re not too old for this are you?”

And there was that taunting tone again, the one that made Harry’s blood sing because he knew that Jeremy would take it however rough it came. They had their tender times, too, but when Jeremy pushed Harry’s buttons like this, it tended to become almost violent.

Harry growled the spell to Vanish his clothes while he was grabbing a tight buttock in each hand and spreading Jeremy so wide his hole was left gaping and lightly convulsing with need.

“You are very well lubed,” said Harry, not surprised. “Reach back and lube my cock.”

“Harrrry,” Jeremy whined trying to push his arse back to find a connection with Harry’s cock. Harry smirked.

“You don’t need more lube?”

Jeremy shook his head and shivered, clenching in anticipation. Harry almost leaned down to suck on the pulsing puckered hole. Almost. His cock twitched and informed him that it would like to be ramming into that young, hot, tight hole, thank you very much.

Harry obliged it by pushing inside the heated grasping channel, groaning deeply as the tightness closed around him in a vice-like grip. He was most pleased. Jeremy had prepared himself but not much, and so the tightness almost hurt.

Like a good boy, Jeremy braced himself on his arms and pushed back hard onto Harry’s cock and Harry’s fingers curled around Jeremy’s hip bones as he pulled his cock almost all the way out before snapping his hips forward and pulling back on Jeremy at the same time. It made Jeremy squeal and shout, “Yes! Harder, old man.”

Snarling, Harry gripped a handful of Jeremy’s hair, yanking back on it harshly as he set up a brutal punishing pace, fucking Jeremy hard. Each snap of his hips was punctuated by a feral groan from Jeremy as the movement yanked his hair tighter. Sweat broke out on both their bodies as Harry continued to pound, heart pumping loudly in his ears. Jeremy virtually collapsed, arms bending and shaking under him. Harry could feel how close Jeremy was to coming and his balls shot the echo of that ache right around his body.

“Don’t you dare come until I tell you!” Harry ground out.

“Harry…please…can I touch myself?”

“No.”

No, that was Harry’s cock to touch and stroke and to make come. “Can you come without me touching you?”

“Yes, oh please…yes!”

Harry shifted slightly, changing the angle and resumed thrusting as savagely as he could, knowing by the sudden convulsion that he’d scored Jeremy’s prostate.

“Fuck, Harry, please?” Jeremy sounded shattered and desperate and Harry’s own balls drew up tight and he came hard.

“Come for me now,” Harry ordered Jeremy in a hoarse, strained voice as the first wash of orgasm slowed to desultory pumps.

Jeremy obliged with a mumbled, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” as he clenched around Harry, sparking a feeble twitching of his already sensitive cock and a few more dribbles of come, and came in pulsing spurts over the carpet.

Then he collapsed on the floor, dragging Harry down with him.

“Fuck, I’ll have carpet burn on my knees from that. You are fucking amazing, Harry.”

“You’re going to make me old before my time with sessions like this. Not that I’m complaining mind.” He rolled off Jeremy’s back, slowly extracting his dick from Jeremy’s arse as he did. “Stay where you are,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow and running his hand over the still reddened globes of Jeremy’s arse.

“Spread your legs. I want to see my come dribbling from your arse.”

Jeremy scrunched up his nose but did as he was told. Harry grabbed a cushion from the couch and pushed it under Jeremy’s hips. “It’s not going to dribble out that way, Harry.” Jeremy laughed softly, and Harry whacked his bum, earning him only a small squeak in protest.

“Just spread them wider.”

When Jeremy did as he was told, Harry let a finger trace down the crack, between the cheeks and bury itself deep inside Jeremy’s loose hole. It was wet and delicious and despite Harry’s recovery time not being what it used to be, Harry felt the arousal pool in his groin once more. Fuck, he wished he was seventeen again, he’d be hard already and aching for more of Jeremy’s incredible arse. Reluctantly, he withdrew his finger, now slick with come, and used it to drag along the outer rim of Jeremy’s hole, over the stretched ridges, and over the sensitive little muscle that spasmed and tried to tighten.

“Utterly fucking gorgeous,” Harry breathed.

Jeremy sighed happily, smiling at Harry through amber eyes filled with post orgasm languor. “Not so bad yourself, Harry.”

He’d thought he’d be bored with Jeremy after a few weeks. The young man had hung around Harry’s work, pestering him, asking him out for drinks, until Harry had finally given in just to, hopefully, send him on his way after one date.

That had been six months ago and somehow the young lad had woven his way into Harry’s life and stayed there. Harry was quite content to have him there and once the kids had seen that he was happy enough, they grew to accept Jeremy, too.

If it weren’t for the fact that Jeremy had this unreasonable jealousy thing going on, Harry would have been happy to keep him.

As it was, he thought he might be seeing the end of a wonderful relationship because, as he watched Jeremy squirm around while he fingered his squelchy arse, Harry made the decision to buy Malfoy Manor.

8 

2029.

As much as he hated to admit it, things were looking up in Draco’s world since Potter had graced his Ballroom with his presence. Boorish Gryffindor that he was. Draco noticed that Potter still had the tendency to expect deference from everyone, himself included. Draco surmised that it was probably something he’d grown used to, having people fawn all over him for most of his life. Which was bloody annoying, really. Apart from defeating the Dark Lord, what had Potter done to deserve all the adulation? And it wasn’t as if he’d done it off his own bat; there had been a damned prophesy about it. He’d had no choice but to fight, so he’d not chosen to do the right thing at all. Fate and bloody luck, that’s all it was.

And where was Draco’s fate and luck? There was no prophesy about him, unless there was one that said he’d be an innocent bystander, brutally killed before his time, leaving a beautiful body in the prime of his youth. Such a tragedy. No one cried for him, no one had flocked to the streets when he died, no one had even attended his funeral! He’d been so hurt when he found out about the service. Andromeda and Teddy…he really had been forgotten. Except Potter hadn’t forgotten. He’d been pretty good about visiting and spending time with Draco since he’d found him. He’d even managed to get Teddy to visit once when he agreed to put off the decision to sell the Manor for a while.

That had been an emotion-laden visit. It had been hard seeing Teddy as a man, when the last time he’d seen him was as a ten-year-old boy. The change in their relationship was further exacerbated by the fact that Draco had been twenty-eight when he died, yet his portrait was of him as an eighteen-year-old. Awkwardly, they’d tried to reestablish the friendliness they’d shared but, whilst Potter mentioned later that it was obvious to see the regard they held for each other, Draco felt like they had lost whatever it was they’d seen in each other. Besides, he could do without Potter’s pity, so he was inclined to ignore any words of wisdom that came from that mouth.

From the moment Teddy walked out of the Ballroom, Draco had sensed that he was delaying for Potter’s sake alone and that the Manor would be sold sooner or later. It was devastating to say the least. But he surprised himself by feeling grateful to Potter for the extension, not that he was planning on letting Potter know that.

Something else he wasn’t going to admit to anyone, least of all himself, was that Potter had grown up fairly fit for an old guy. Perhaps Draco had just discovered a latent thing for men with greying hair at their temples.

Although, it would explain the shameless attempt at seducing Pansy’s Uncle Terence when he was sixteen.

He’d first met the then thirty-six year old not long after he turned sixteen. His father and Pansy’s were in Azkaban and neither Draco nor Pansy knew how to cope terribly well. He’d spent a lot of his summer at Pansy’s house, both in an attempt to escape his mother who was frantically trying to use the family influence to gain Lucius’ freedom, and in order to offer and receive some moral support.

Being summer they’d made liberal use of her pool and surrounds, spending afternoons and evenings basking in the warm sun and swimming in the cool water. Terence was fun and, initially, Draco had only seen Terence’s attention as offering support, for which he was very grateful. Especially when Terence told Draco that he’d be called before the Dark Lord before the end of summer.

The fact that Terence had his arm around Draco’s shoulder at the time triggered thoughts about the different type of support he’d like to receive from Terence. His sixteen-year-old libido went into overdrive. Never one to overlook an opportunity to take advantage of a situation, Draco reinterpreted the touching as something he could use to his benefit. The protection of the strong Terence might make all the difference. There were worse things than having your father in Azkaban after all.

So, he’d curled up under Terence’s arm when he received the bad news and cried piteously. His arms had slid around the older man and he’d hung on tight, and when he’d almost stopped crying, he looked up, eyes full of tears, into Terence’s kind face with his brown hair just beginning to show signs of graying at the temples. Before he could stop to think of the consequences, he’d leant in and kissed Terence on the mouth.

Terence had, of course, been very firm and pushed him away, telling him that he preferred women, and ones his own age at that. Even though he was flattered, he wasn’t interested. Draco wondered later, because Terence Parkinson was definitely a Death Eater, if somehow his mission wasn’t made harder due to Terence mentioning the clumsy seduction attempt to the Dark Lord.

Now, the fact that he decided he found greying hair at the temples attractive meant that maybe he’d not just been trying to get protection.

It was something to think about anyway.

He still hated Potter, though. Distinguishably greying or not.

.o0o.

Each day Draco made his coffee and sat in the library as close to the front of the painting as he could, so that he could read the newspaper. Several months ago, Potter had set up a pedestal, which displayed the current day’s paper. It was typical bloody goody-goody Potter, and Draco simply despised feeling indebted or, Merlin help him, grateful to the idiot. However, he wasn’t about to do something ridiculous and lose the vast wealth of new things to learn and read about by saying something scathing. And he wasn’t about to experience the need to wash his mouth out with soap by thanking Potter, either.

Still, he almost ruined it by default. Potter had charmed the pedestal to turn the page only when Draco asked it nicely.

“You have to say, ‘turn the page, please’, Malfoy.”

“It’s a bloody spell, Potter; there’s no need for false manners for a spell!” Draco scoffed.

“For my spells there is,” he said, grinning. “Try it.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at the pedestal. “Turn,” he demanded, ignoring Potter’s suggestion.

“Turn what? Turn into a rainbow? Turn tail and run away?”

When the pedestal began to answer him back, Potter’s delighted laughter rang round the room.

“Malfoy, I warned you, you have to show manners to my spell or it will continue to taunt you.”

“You arsehole, Potter!” Draco folded his arms in a huff and refused to speak at all after that. But after half an hour of the bloody pedestal continually adding scurrilous comments, like ‘turn queer?’ and ‘turn around and I’ll show you demanding,’ which were becoming worse the longer it went on, Draco had just about had enough.

“I suppose you think this is funny, don’t you, Potter?”

“Hilarious. It’s up to you if you want to read the papers. I’ve paid for them to be delivered every day and one of the elves will come in and set them up for you, enlarging the writing so you can read it. But if you continue to abuse the poor pedestal then it won’t feel obliged to help you out.”

Grudgingly, Draco had given in, but only after the pedestal shouted ‘turn into a fairy and fly away, never to return, like Tinkerbell,’ and begun humming off-key tunes, knowing that if he didn’t, he’d have to listen to horrid versions of ‘Boil me in your cauldron of love’ forever.

With the pedestal under control, at least he was able to keep up with what was happening in the outside world. He still had no visitors and, really, that was the way he wanted it now. People had forgotten him; his friends had either died or moved on with their lives and had no time for the portrait of a friend they’d lost contact with at the end of the war.

From his reading of the Prophet he’d reacquainted himself with the social world of the pureblood and avidly read all the gossip. He’d seen several familiar names and assumed that they were children of people he’d known. Potter rolled his eyes at Draco’s obsession with high society, but Draco merely looked down his nose at Potter and told him he wouldn’t know high society if it bit him on the arse.

Potter had responded by saying that his arse was a very nice arse and that if anyone wanted to bite it then they had better be good looking and male. In which case, he wouldn’t care if they were high society or not.

It was lucky that Draco had been sitting down. Potter liked cock? Nice one, he’d thought approvingly. They’d never spoken about it before. He’d assumed that because Potter had married the female Weasley and produced several offspring, the golden boy was straight. And his own sexual preferences were none of Potter’s business; it was territory better left alone. Draco would feel weird talking about his sexuality with Potter. He hated him. Discussing intimate details of sexual preferences might indicate that they were like friends or something.

And Hell would freeze over before he’d consider Potter a friend. Draco may have pushed all thought of an eternity of revenge upon Potter’s naked body to the back of his mind, but it was still there safely shrouded until he was ready for it.

.o0o.

“I see the circus is in town,” Draco commented as Potter let himself into the Ballroom.

“Nice to see you, too.”

“If the description fits…” Draco chuckled smugly and then sipped at his coffee.

“I could just collect the rest of the items for the museum and never come back.”

“Ah, you’d miss me too much, Potter.”

“What makes you say that?”

Draco pointed to the newspaper. “Your life must be terribly boring. In all the weeks I’ve been reading the papers, your name hasn’t appeared once. I add beauty and colour to your life. I must be your only social outlet.”

Potter laughed. “You think that after more than twenty years they still care about what I get up to? They don’t. They might follow the careers of James and Lily because they’re famous in their own right, but I generally stay away from the limelight. Although…”

Potter sat down in the chair he’d provided for himself so he could be comfortable. He looked far away, like he was considering something.

After several frustrating minutes of telling himself not to ask, Draco finally gave in, exasperated yet curious despite himself.

“Although, what, Potter?”

Grinning, Potter looked at him, mirth dancing in his vivid green eyes. “The media had a field day when I came out. That was almost worth putting up with the stalking and the Howlers I received.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I bet there was a marked increase in the number of people who admitted they were gay after that. Misguided as they are, the public always did give you too much influence over their decision making and gave you too much credit for being a good role model.”

“Are you saying that one can’t be gay and be a good role model?”

Draco looked back at him, exasperated. “Of course not. I’m merely saying that they give you undue influence. Your sexuality has nothing to do with the fact that, whether I like it or not, you’re their hero and defeated the Dark Lord. I bet now it’s all right to be gay because Harry Potter says so and not because it’s always been all right.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Potter replied, his eyebrows almost getting lost in his floppy fringe. Draco could see the wheels turning in Potter’s tiny brain. Of course he’d never thought of it like that; he’d always had the freedom to do exactly as he chose and had always expected everyone to just agree with him. And he’d once called Draco spoilt!

“No, that can’t be right, because Al came out to me way before I started dating blokes.”

Draco shrugged. “He’s your son; I assume he grew up with the same thoughtless arrogance as his father.”

“I’m not arrogant!” Potter protested hotly.

“Please,” scoffed Draco. “You are one of the most arrogant people I know. All through Hogwarts you showed your arrogance, in just about everything you did.”

“Name me once!” Potter demanded.

“Oh, how about the second time I met you, when you refused to shake my hand? That do?”

“That wasn’t arrogance, that was not wanting to be friends with a snobbish piece of work like yourself. Someone who had been rude to the first two friends I ever had.”

“Get over yourself, Potter. Even the almighty berk who lived would have had friends growing up. Only losers don’t have friends.”

Potter gave him a hard look and then stood. “I always said that you had no fucking idea about who I am.”

Then he walked away, back towards the doors. When he reached them and pulled one open, he stopped, back still to Draco.

“The reason I came here today was to tell you that Teddy has finally decided to sell the Manor but you’ll be well looked after because I’ve decided to buy it.”

Then he exited, leaving Draco slack-jawed and in shock, simmering between the relief that there wouldn’t be strangers in his house, rage that Potter was now going to own his beautiful family home and shame that he’d been unable to stop Potter of all people from being allowed to claim Malfoy property as his own. Shame that he’d chosen with his heart and not his head on who should succeed him when he died.

9 

2030

“The sale finalises today, Malfoy, and then you will be legally mine.”

Harry laughed at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face. He really wished he’d hung around to see the look on Malfoy’s face when he informed him that he’d be buying the Manor. At the time he’d been too angry with the twat to stay, but he’d regretted it later. He’d still managed to cop an earful of insults the next time he’d visited. Something about what the state of the world was coming to when a mangy half-blood was allowed to roam the streets unrestricted, without a collar and leash and unsupervised. About how they should all be locked up in a cage where good, honest, decent purebloods could poke them with their canes whenever they felt like it. Harry wasn’t really sure that was exactly what he’d said but he was too busy trying to control his laughter and pressing the stitch in his side to hear correctly.

“The day I’m yours will be the day that…” Harry grinned at Malfoy’s discomfort. “The day that your flaming poofter son, Albus, marries a girl. And we both know that’s not going to happen.”

“No, that’s true,” Harry replied. “But who are you calling a flaming poofter, anyway? You’re just as much a cock lover as he is. As I am for that matter.”

The look of utter astonishment on Malfoy’s face was priceless. Harry couldn’t have planned it better.

“What? You…I am not…why would you think…?” Malfoy stuttered and protested, while Harry couldn’t help himself and laughed harder.

“Malfoy, I’ve known from the minute I saw that picture of me hanging naked in the dungeons.”

“But why would that imply that I’m gay? People are always hung naked in dungeons.”

“They are?” That was news to Harry. Then again, he’d never really seen a terrible lot of people chained in dungeons before so he wouldn’t know.

“Of course they are.” Malfoy frowned as if he were questioning his knowledge of the facts. “Aren’t they?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think so.” No point in letting Malfoy have the win when he could get more mileage out of this. “If you have a prisoner, you don’t normally take the time to undress them before you chain them to a wall. You might rip their shirt off later if you’re planning on whipping them, I guess.”

“Well, that’s just…fuck!” Malfoy stomped through the portraits to the one in the dungeon. When he got there he whipped off his cloak and tucked it in around Harry’s shoulders, the folds draping to his knees and covering him decorously. All the time, Malfoy was muttering about how depraved his father was then if he had all those Muggles down here naked. Harry saw him shiver in revulsion and felt sorry for him, because he understood that Lucius Malfoy had been a sick and twisted deviant and had passed this off as normal to his son who had assumed that his father knew what he was on about.

Harry hadn’t minded too much about not being covered over, though now he felt embarrassed by the situation and regretted that he’d teased him about it. He let Malfoy cool down a little before attempting conversation again.

“Anyway, as of next week, I’ll be able to visit you every day as I’ll be living here.”

“Lucky me.” Malfoy rolled his eyes and then turned his nose up at Harry. “I bet you wish your boyfriend hadn’t dumped you, so you could come in here and throw that in my face too.”

“Malfoy, what are you on about?”

“Well, you just can’t wait to shove it in my face all the time that finally you’ve got the big one over me, can you? You’ve handed me the final humiliation by buying Malfoy property.”

“What does that have to do with Jeremy?”

“You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have come in here and had sex right in front of me, just so you could laugh at me that I can’t.”

Harry blanched. “I don’t know where you’re getting your ideas from, Malfoy. Why would I do that? I may like a bit of rough and tumble and a few kinks now and then, but exhibitionism isn’t one of them. I wouldn’t want anyone watching us let alone you.”

“But I’m not just anyone, am I, Potter? I’m not human, just a portrait.”

That made Harry think for a bit. He wondered when he’d stopped thinking of Malfoy as ‘just a portrait’.

“Well, you’re still…you. And I’d still have to suffer a running commentary telling me I was doing everything wrong and I’d never live it down. Most likely, I’d not be able to get it up if you were watching. And trust me, Jeremy would have been most pissed off at that.”

“Of course you’d do it wrong, Potter. You’re a Gryffindor, what else can you expect?”

“Perhaps thirty years of experience might suggest that I know what I’m doing. I bet you were a virgin when you died, anyway.”

Oh, that one hit home, Harry saw. If Malfoy could blush in the portrait, Harry knew he would be blushing right now.

“Not quite, Potter,” Malfoy replied. “But I’ve not had sex with a man before.”

“A woman, then?”

Malfoy nodded. “Pansy. Summer between fifth and sixth year. Just after I’d been given my ‘assignment’. It was a comfort thing. We were just friends, neither of us wanted anything more, but we were so scared and holding each other wasn’t nearly enough comfort.”

Harry remained still, not wanting to interrupt perhaps the first time Malfoy had ever confided anything personal to him. He thought perhaps that if he moved he might frighten him off like a deer. The constant changes in the atmosphere of their discussions of late left him confused and unsure of just what their relationship was. If anyone had asked him to put a label on it, he wouldn’t have been able to. ‘Friends’ wasn’t right - how could you be friends with a portrait when you’d hated the real thing? ‘Acquaintances’ was wrong, too. They’d known each other too long for them to be merely acquaintances.

Perhaps ‘friends’ was as close a category as was available.

Sometimes they’d have almost friendly conversations about whatever was in the newspaper, sometimes there’d be heated discussions and sometimes Malfoy would storm out of the room and head into the garden, secreting himself behind a huge tree where he would refuse to speak to Harry. At other times, Harry would throw his hands in the air and leave the Ballroom, usually to Malfoy’s taunts about being a coward and running away.

But he always came back and Malfoy always left the security of the garden and they never spoke of the arguments again. Harry was fairly sure that no matter what Malfoy said, he appreciated Harry’s company and therefore would try and forget the argument just to make sure that Harry would keep coming back. Harry always returned because Malfoy was growing on him. He kept his mind active, kept him on his toes, something neither Ron nor Hermione understood, a fact they kept reiterating every time Harry mentioned Malfoy. Of course, no matter what Harry said, nor how many times he tried to explain, the two of them refused to accept it, and they both adamantly refused to come and visit with Malfoy to see for themselves.

Harry had tried once to have Pansy come and visit Malfoy, too, seeing as how he knew they’d been such good friends at school, but she had reluctantly refused when her brutish husband had stepped in and forbidden her to set foot in Malfoy Manor. Pansy’s eyes had shown their distress and Harry understood that given her choice she would visit.

He’d even tried to contact Theo and Blaise. Theo said he’d all but forgotten the freak and it didn’t surprise him that he’d had portraits painted of himself. Blaise politely declined, but Harry could hear the sneer in his voice that someone had tried to get him to visit a portrait.

Harry hadn’t told Malfoy about those attempts. It would be much easier if he thought that everyone had moved on with their lives. He’d be so angry to hear the way Pansy was being treated by her husband.

After several long moments, Malfoy looked up at Harry, eyes haunted. “It didn’t make any difference, sixth year was still a nightmare.”

Harry nodded. “It was for everyone.”

“If--”

“None of that.” Harry shook his head and spoke firmly. “Nothing can change what happened, nothing. It was all so long ago now anyway, so don’t go on carrying ‘what if’ around your neck like an albatross.”

Malfoy had a twinkle in his eyes and his mouth curled up in amusement.

“What I was going to ask was if you could find me some wizard porn, I’d appreciate it. I had magazines painted in but they lose their movement in portraits. And they’re more than twenty years old now I could do with some new material.”

“You were not!” Harry insisted.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Damned right I am.”

“What if I tell you that it wasn’t what was actually going to come out of my mouth, but that I have been thinking about it?’

“I might believe that,” Harry agreed.

“So, will you?’

“You want me to find you some porn? Gay porn?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter. I want some really hard-core fucking. A huge stud fucking some pretty blond senseless, if you please. Seeing as you won’t take advantage of my offer to watch you and your last paramour in some hot, live action, I shall have to settle for professionals.”

Malfoy didn’t leave Harry speechless in shock a lot these days, but occasionally like now he pulled off a ripper. Speechless in rage, definitely, but not shock.

“Close your mouth, Potter, you’re making me wish that I could put it to good use.”

Where had this Malfoy come from? He’d gone from confiding secrets and appearing pained to flirting and horny in the space of a breath.

“Right,” Harry finally managed to say.

“Don’t look so shocked, Potter. I am always going to have the body of an eighteen-year-old. I get a hard-on just thinking about a thick, juicy cock slamming into me and seeing as that’s not likely to happen, wanking is the next best thing. Don’t tell me you don’t wank?”

“Of course I do,” Harry retorted. “I’m surprised that I haven’t walked in here and caught you wanking.”

“You nearly have on several occasions. I can arrange it for you if you’d like to watch me.” Malfoy’s eyebrow rose in suggestive amusement and his hands slid up the leg of his trousers to the belt at his waist.

Harry blushed. Thinking about a naked Malfoy wasn’t a nice thought at all, he told himself. No, he did not want to watch Malfoy wanking.

“No, that’s quite all right, Malfoy, I can do without seeing your pale, skinny body in the throes of passion, thanks.”

“Prude,” Malfoy replied, laughing.

“Oh, I’m no prude, I just don’t think it appropriate for me to be watching you wanking.”

“You watch porn?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then how much different would it be to watch me? Just something you can only ever watch and never touch.”

“You want me to watch you? Are you the one with exhibitionist tendencies?”

“Only for you, Potter.” Malfoy’s mocking tone rang through the Ballroom. He laughed then and Harry growled softly, becoming frustrated and unaccountably uncomfortable.

Malfoy flicked open the belt on his trousers, pushing his hips forward as he did, revealing to Harry very clearly that Malfoy was indeed feeling horny. The bulge in his trousers was noticeable and sizeable, Harry noted. Then he blushed and looked away when he realised what he was doing.

“It’s all right to watch, Potter,” Malfoy crooned. “But you can leave at any time.”

Malfoy’s voice had taken on a seductive soft tone. Harry knew Malfoy was deliberately provoking him but whilst Harry was still looking at the far wall, telling himself he should be leaving, he was not moving. He heard the tell tale fizz of the zipper being pulled down and Harry’s heart rate inched up a notch.

“Do you want to leave, Harry?” The sound of clothes rustling reached Harry’s ear, along with a soft sigh and a barely breathed ‘oh, yes’. Harry couldn’t help himself; he looked up at Malfoy.

Shirt half unbuttoned, pants down round his knees and with a long, pretty cock standing proudly pointing towards his navel, he looked beautiful. It was the first time Harry had ever considered Malfoy beautiful. With his eyes closed and a look of bliss on his face, Malfoy began to stroke his erection, wrapped his hand around the length and stroked, the deep red head peeking out the top on each downward stoke.

“No, I want to watch,” Harry whispered and moved closer to the portrait. He was a bit surprised at himself for staying. Not because he was uncomfortable watching people wanking - he’d watched his partners enough over the years - but that he wanted to watch Malfoy in particular. He felt vaguely like a pervert, seeing as he was over forty and Malfoy wasn’t even twenty. That didn’t stop him, though; he did like his partners younger than himself.

“Thought so,” Malfoy said. “Merlin this feels good, Harry, more exciting knowing you’re watching.”

Harry’s eyes alternated between Malfoy’s face and his cock, fascinated how breathy and husky Malfoy’s voice had become, then riveted watching how fast Malfoy’s hand was moving over his cock and how his stomach muscles were jumping sporadically.

“Tell me how it feels,” Harry commanded.

“It feels…hot in my hand...the friction is burning my palm…” He groaned. “But I love the extra roughness over the…head…fuck…the way it pulls the skin is…just how…how I want it right…now.”

“Do you wish it was my hand?” Harry had to ask and he used a tone that he was used to employing when he required an answer.

Malfoy’s eyes snapped open and pierced Harry’s where he caught the admission and the desperation as Malfoy teetered on the edge of orgasm. The thrill of victory tingled through to Harry’s groin as he watched Malfoy begin to tremble and his movements become jerky.

“I said; do you want it to be my hand?” Harry demanded again.

“Yes,” Malfoy exhaled right before he tensed and shot long spurts of come across the floor, body spasming relentlessly, eyes still boring straight into Harry’s.

After several moments when neither of them moved, Harry finally took a deep breath. “Well, that was certainly entertaining,” he said, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

“I’ll try and let you catch me wanking more often,” Malfoy replied, giving Harry a small, self-conscious smile that was trying to be a smirk but didn’t quite make it. “That way I might drive you crazy at not being able to touch me.”

“You were the one who admitted you wanted me to touch you.”

“You could have left.”

“Just because I didn’t doesn’t mean I wanted to touch you,” Harry pointed out reasonably, and saw Malfoy’s face fall slightly.

“Tell that to your hard-on, Potter.” Malfoy sneered at him, pulled up his trousers and slipped into the garden portrait, finding his tree to hide behind.

10 

2040


“Al, why don’t you and Scorpius move in here with the children? There’s plenty of room and the Manor will be yours when I go anyway.”

“Dad, why are you insisting on giving me the Manor? James is rather annoyed at you for that, you know.”

“I know, but James doesn’t have the same feel for the place you do. Besides, he’s getting all my liquid funds and don’t even think about telling me Lily would want this place.”

Al laughed as he shifted baby Serena in his arms until she settled once more to the bottle. Harry smiled hearing the soft sucking noises as his newest grandchild drank her evening bottle in the cosy warmth of the nursery. “Do you think if you gave the whole place over to the Museum she might relent and visit?”

“No, she’s decided to side with Ron and Hermione who think that I am unreasonably obsessed with Draco and she refuses to have anything to do with me here.”

“She has a point, dad. You do spend a lot of time with him and it’s a bit…odd spending all that time with a portrait.”

“Be that as it may, I’m not a hermit or a crazy recluse, so how I spend some of my spare time is none of her business.”

“You don’t think that’s why you’ve not been able to maintain a long term relationship?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you seem to go out with someone for a few weeks and then something happens and you lose interest.”

Harry frowned. He’d bemoaned his single state often enough, but none of the people he’d dated, male or female, seemed to be able to hold his interest for very long. They either tended to get testy about the time he spent with Draco or wanted him to move in with them. Looking at it from Al’s point of view, it might look like he was putting Draco above the partners in his life. He mentally shrugged. Perhaps he was. Which was odd, because he’d really hated Draco back in school. He didn’t now.

“I think I feel a bit sorry for him, actually,” Harry said trying to articulate why he spent so much time with Draco. “When he’s not being a completely arrogant twat, he’s actually quite good company. I think perhaps I’m looking for the chance to do it right this time.”

Serena slurped the rest of her milk and was sucking on the teat of an empty bottle. Al smiled proudly as he put the empty bottle on the table. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” He grinned, tickling her chin, before lifting her up against his shoulder and patting her back gently.

“Why do you need to do it right this time?” Al asked, turning to Harry.

“I just have a feeling. Perhaps it’s guilt that he was killed on his first day released from house arrest.”

“That’s hardly your fault,” Al pointed out logically.

“Yes, I know.” A loud gurgling burp came from Serena, which made both of them laugh. “I can’t help thinking though that if I’d only pushed a little harder he’d have not had such a long sentence.”

“And by the sound of it, he’d have just been killed earlier. The man was on a revenge mission and he obviously knew when Draco was being freed. Even if it had been earlier he would have still known, still attacked him.”

Harry looked at Al with his eyebrows raised, ready to throw his hands in the air in surrender. “You’re right. I have no excuse, then, I just like his company and with our history, it’s the best I can do towards feeling I’m putting things right.”

“He’s pretty good looking, Dad, you sure you didn’t carry a flame for him from back in your school days?” Harry knew Al was teasing; Al was aware of the history between them and there had been plenty of family ‘discussions’ about their odd friendship over the years. Harry ignored him and moved to take the baby, cradling her in his arms as she dozed, full of warm milk and happily sated.

“He looks a little like Scorpius,” Al continued, smiling sideways at Harry as he folded down the covers in the cot. “Same blond hair, similar eye colour…”

“Ah, but your Scorpius is as quiet and gentle as Draco is obnoxious and rude.”

“Would you have been interested in him if he’d still been alive?”

Harry laughed. “Well, he’s still such an arrogant sod that I think we’d still be hating each other. It’s only that he can’t escape me and that I’m the only one who visits him that’s made him accept my friendship.”

“You underestimate yourself, Dad. For an old guy you’re still in great shape and he’d be nuts to knock you back.”

“Wait, wait,” Harry protested, laughing softly as Serena became restless at the noise. “I never said I was interested. Besides, he’s a portrait.”

“But you are, though.”

He could never get anything past Al. Harry thought that it was because they were so alike in personality. Harry loved all his children to distraction, but he would admit that the one he felt most connected to was Al because he never felt like he had to be the perfect father; he was allowed to relax and enjoy his son.

And the truth was that had Draco been alive, Harry would have definitely been interested. Although, he wondered if that was partly because at the moment Draco looked eighteen and Harry did like his male partners younger. Always had.

That was actually the way Al and Scorpius had come to be together. Harry had met the blond at a Ministry party and was immediately intrigued by the young man. He’d never liked Scorpius’ father - Theo Nott had been one of Draco’s friends at Hogwarts. His association with Voldemort had been more than hinted at, and only the fact that he’d not had the Mark had kept him from Azkaban. That and the fact that he’d married into the Greengrass family as soon as he could manage it, which was shortly after the final battle. Astoria and her family had declared for the Light and it had been enough to keep Theo free. Harry had not forgotten that Theo had refused to see Draco but over the years they’d let the friction over it fade away. On that night, though, neither of Scorpius’ parents had been in attendance and Harry had spent a lot of time chatting to the young man and asked him back to his house for drinks.

He laughed about it now but, at the time, it was a bit of a wake up call because when Scorpius met Albus they only had eyes for each other and hadn’t been apart since. Harry took that as an indication that he was getting old and should probably start looking for partners closer to his own age to settle down with.

Now Al and Scorpius had two children. They’d adopted Aries when her parents abandoned her on the steps of the newspaper that Lily ran. She was three years old, all golden bouncy curls and cheek and everyone who met her was entranced. And there was the baby, Serena.

Both Al and Scorpius decided they had wanted a biological child each and had engaged the services of one of their friends as a surrogate. Serena was the much-loved result of their first attempt and she was Al’s biological child. The sudden increase in the size of their family had made them realise that their flat was too small, hence Harry’s offer for them to move in.

“Maybe,” Harry finally allowed. “Think about moving in here, will you? You both love the Manor and Draco has met you and approved.” He grinned because Draco had spent one whole visit telling him how hopeless Potter genes must be to have sprouted a look-alike four-eyed git. But then he’d asked after both of them on each subsequent visit, especially when the adoption was being processed and the surrogate picked, so Harry knew he approved even if he wouldn’t say it.

“Scorpius has mentioned it,” Al admitted, taking Serena and laying her in the cot, covering her tenderly and kissing her on the forehead. “He has one condition, though.”

“What’s that?”

“You know how his family is with all the pureblood traditions?” Al was looking a bit tense, so Harry just nodded and waited for him to continue. Al beckoned him out of the room and shut the door after them. “He says that if we move in here, that seeing as it will be ours when you go, we should adopt the Malfoy name so that the tradition will be carried on.”

That shouldn’t hurt as much as it did, Harry thought. It was just a name and he’d always argued against keeping the old tradition of valuing a name over the person, believing that it had led to too many wars and too much needless bloodshed, and yet here he was feeling kicked in the stomach because his son wanted to give up the Potter name. He’d thought his son was proud of his name. The Potters weren’t unknown in the wizarding world even before Harry’s catapult to fame. Even as he thought it, he knew how hypocritical he was being, and suddenly it was a lot clearer how Draco must have felt. Even so, he still held to the belief that when it came down to it, it was a person that held worth and not a name.

“And what do you think?” Harry asked, noticing that his son was uncomfortable.

“I don’t think I want to take the Malfoy name. Neither of us changed our names when we married but because you’re leaving the house to me, will it count if only Scorpius adopts the Malfoy name?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, Scorpius and his family don’t see it as such a big deal. They say it’s done all the time because over the years they’ve had to adopt other bloodlines into the family or else they’d have died out with inbreeding at some point. I’m just not sure I want to give up my name.”

“Perhaps I can leave you both the Manor. That will work. I’ll think about it.”

And he would have to think hard because he did want Al and Scorpius living in the Manor with him. He loved them all, and this place was so huge and with so many rooms he was sure that they wouldn’t get under each other’s feet. He had no doubts about the permanence of Al and Scorpius’ relationship. They were like long lost halves of each other’s souls and no one could split them up. Harry couldn’t imagine one without the other anymore.

He’d just have to get over himself and ignore the residual abhorrence he still felt when he thought of the associations to the name Malfoy.

“Thanks, Dad.” Al grinned. “Now, how about a beer? I’m parched and Scorpius won’t be back with Aries for at least another hour.”

.o0o.

“Sixty years old this year, Potter.”

Draco knew there was a smirk on his face; he’d put it there deliberately. Their playful insulting banter had become a comfortable, familiar cloak he wore these days. Somewhere down the long years, his hatred had worn thin and though his sense of self preservation had not allowed him to admit he actually might like Potter, he would grudgingly accept that he appreciated his company. It wasn’t like he had anyone else visit him regularly and his ten years of virtual isolation under house arrest had taught him that you valued what you had. Like he’d valued Andromeda and Teddy. Now, despite himself, he found he valued Potter.

It didn’t mean he had to fawn all over him like he would bet the adoring general public still did.

“And what is that smirk for?” Potter asked.

“Oh, nothing, just looking at how you’ve aged. There’s more grey in your hair every year and finally I can see the changes in your body. You’re not a young man anymore.”

Potter moved on the couch he’d had set up in the Ballroom. He came most nights to read or they’d talk. At some point, Potter had set up a wizarding wireless that he’d charmed to operate on Draco’s command…polite request. Draco could have quite easily kissed Potter for that. He loved playing the harp, but the sound of instruments other than his beloved harp lifted his spirits amazingly. He’d even begun to teach himself to play some of the new chamber music the radio played so that he could join in on Tuesday evenings at 9.00pm for their parlour evening, feeling like he was part of the orchestra.

“Just because some people will do anything to stay eighteen forever, doesn’t mean the rest of us care that we get old and sport a few wrinkles here and there.”

“Oh, low blow there, Potter. That was beneath you.” Draco had become reconciled to his future many years ago but he was still ambivalent seeing how Potter aged. There was this obstacle he found it hard to get around most of the time. Seeing himself unchanging in the mirror each day was one thing, remembering Potter at the same age – or even checking him out down in the dungeon – made him realise just how much he’d changed over the years. When you saw it happen gradually it wasn’t noticeable until you looked a number of years later.

Objectively, though, he could see that Potter was still fairly decent looking, and fit, no matter how much he teased him otherwise.

“You hand out the insults, you have to expect them back, Draco.”

Draco laughed. Potter never had taken any of his shit without flinging some of it back in his face. It was comforting and he’d had to stop himself on a number of occasions from feeling dependent on that comfort. In many ways it was still an uneasy truce they had between them; both of them still ready to flare up at each other at a moments notice, though he had to admit those instances were becoming less and less fights between enemies and more and more fights between people who’d lived with each other for a long time.

“Very well. Is your family planning to celebrate your birthday?”

“I think they’re planning a surprise party for me, but I might surprise them and not turn up.” Potter laughed. Draco liked it when he laughed; the wrinkles around his eyes deepened and made them look like they were dancing.

“I still don’t understand why you don’t travel. You have been to exactly how many places besides England?”

“Shut it, you. I prefer to stay in England. I’m happy here. Besides, who would keep you company and out of trouble?”

Oh, Potter was laughing at him now. Draco narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “And I am likely to get into what sort of trouble exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Potter replied, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I might miss you wanking again.”

Draco scrunched up his face. “Merlin, Potter that was ten years ago! Are you ever going to forget it?”

“Hardly, Draco. It was too sweet.”

“Sweet?” Draco screeched. “Just because your latest nappy wearer dumped you and you’ve not had sex for what, a month? Doesn’t mean you can come here and watch me wanking.”

Potter just smirked.

“I mean, I know I’m gorgeous and all, being young and perfect, but I am way out of your league and you know it.”

Potter laughed and his eyes did that crinkly thing again. “You mean you really wouldn’t want my hand on you wanking you right now?”

Well not until you and your crinkly eyes mentioned it, you bloody tosser. Stupid fanciful thoughts of ridiculous dancing eyes. Draco thanked Merlin that he hadn’t said that aloud and stormed off to get himself a drink.

“Oh, come on, Draco, don’t get all huffy on me. I was teasing, I wouldn’t touch you if you paid me.”

Draco rounded on Potter, half full glass slopping over the sides, gathering all the worst names to call him, only to find Potter right up close to the portrait grinning and making Draco wish his portrait was life sized.

“Just calm down, Draco. You’re gorgeous and perfect and I would love to have your hard dick in my hand or my mouth, but it’s not going to happen, is it, so let’s just change the subject.”

“You’re an arse, Potter.”

“No, but I do have a good arse.”

“Merlin, but you’re in a strange mood, today. You getting frustrated at the lack of sex?”

Potter sighed and poured himself a drink before sitting back down on the couch. “No, it’s not that, although the lack of sex is annoying. Perhaps I am just feeling my age after all.”

“I doubt it.”

“Then I’m just restless,” Potter replied, downing his drink in one gulp.

“I keep telling you, you should travel. You deserve some time to yourself. Those children of yours are running true to Weasley form and breeding like rabbits, and running you ragged.”

“Hey, enough!”

“Just saying there are lots of them. I can only imagine the horror of a Weasley family gathering where the whole family is there.”

“And I am sure they’d think it horrid if you attended, too. They’re huge these days because Molly is ill and they’re not sure how much longer she has left, so they’re all making sure they see her whenever they can, though big family functions tire her badly now.”

“Speaking of family, how’s the new baby settling in?”

For some reason, Draco had taken to the younger Potter son and his partner Scorpius. When Draco met them for the first time, he’d sensed eternalness between them. Potter’s son was a mini-Potter and Scorpius was a well-mannered young pureblood. It made Draco feel a bit proud that Theo and Astoria had such a refined young son.

They’d only visited the once, but Draco hoped that they’d soon bring the baby in to see him. Mostly, he didn’t mind that few people came to see him. It was generally only Harry and if he were honest, he was happy with that arrangement. If only because it meant he didn’t need to learn to be polite to hordes of Gryffindors.

“Serena is doing well.” Potter smiled. “I’ve asked them again if they want to move in here with me.”

“Are they going to?”

“I think they will, but I have a proposition I want to put to you first.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you felt that way, Potter, but I don’t think they allow portraits to marry.” Draco was teasing.

“You’re lucky I even care, now shut up and listen. Scorpius thinks that if they move in here they should take your name, seeing as I’m leaving Al the Manor in my will anyway.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose to his non-receding hairline in surprise. “You mean you’d let a Potter change his name to Malfoy? Why?”

“Scorpius was raised pureblood, he tells me Theo and Astoria would approve as it’s been done in the past. It’s an acceptable way to continue the line, apparently.”

“It is, I told you that years ago.”

“I see that. Al isn’t sure he wants to give up his name and basically, unless he does, there won’t be any Malfoys in the Manor anyway, until or unless Al dies and leaves the Manor to Scorpius.”

“There’s no Malfoy now, Potter, and hasn’t been for thirty years, so what difference does it make?”

“I was thinking that if I willed the Manor to both of them, then Scorpius being a Malfoy and heir to the Manor would work even if Al doesn’t change his name.”

“You’d do that for me?” Draco wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“I think there’s some formal name adoption process, isn’t there? Where you allow them to formally adopt the Malfoy name.”

Draco nodded, rather speechless.

“I’ll let you know then,” Potter said and turned to leave for the evening, damping down the fire and lowering the lights. “Goodnight, Draco.”

“Good night, Harry,” Draco replied, thinking that after all this time, after giving him the opportunity to have a family again, he deserved Harry rather than Potter.

11

2050

“Draco. Where are you?” called Harry as he entered the Ballroom and couldn’t immediately find Draco in any of the portraits. It generally meant that Draco was in the bathroom. These days it seemed like Harry spent half of his time wishing that Draco would accidentally on purpose leave the door to the bathroom open. Then he would berate himself for thinking about ogling a portrait. And at his age, too!

Moments later, a towel-clad Draco appeared from the bathroom, hair wet and body damp from a shower, and Harry’s thought process stopped mid-thought. He forgot all about berating himself, caught up in staring at Draco for a moment. There were definitely a lot worse things he could be berating himself over.

“You called?” Draco’s smirk made Harry realise he’d been caught staring and that his face probably showed every thought in his head. As usual. But Harry refused to blush; he was only human for God’s sake. Anyone with eyes in their head would be having lustful thoughts about a bloody gorgeous Draco Malfoy covered only by a towel. Over the years, Harry had surprised Draco several times and each time he’d seen Draco naked, he’d been impressed.

“You could leave the door open and let me see properly,” Harry teased.

“Or I could drop the towel…” Draco countered, letting his thumb slide under the edge of the towel as he thrust a hip forward provocatively.

“Promises, promises.”

They both grinned, as Harry knew Draco wouldn’t drop the towel; this sort of teasing banter had been going on for a few years now. It felt comfortable. Harry had admitted to himself a long time ago that had Draco been alive he’d have been interested in pursuing a relationship, but Draco wasn’t alive, so the light flirting satisfied some small aspect of his appreciation.

But other than the one time Draco had basically goaded Harry into watching him wank, he’d never deliberately been naked in front of Harry. Accidents had happened, of course, they were bound to, but that line into premeditated nakedness had not been crossed.

“One day, I’ll surprise you and stop wearing clothes all together,” Draco said, donning a bathrobe over his towel. To Harry’s disappointment this covered most of the perfectly smooth, pale skin up completely.

“Remind me to move into this room permanently when that happens.”

“You just about live in here as it is. I’m not sure I could put up with you all day every day. It’s taken me more than forty years to get used to your boring presence as it is.”

“Well, that’s a good incentive to not walk around naked, then, isn’t it?”

Harry rolled his eyes at himself, realising he’d just argued against Draco being naked.

“Ah, but then I’d never see you.” Draco was smiling. “I know you’re drawn back in here by the mere possibility that you might see this glorious body naked occasionally.”

Harry laughed. “All right, you’ve got me there. The only reason I even consider visiting you is because I am obsessed with your naked arse.”

“I knew it.” Draco laughed too and sat down on his couch, keeping his legs together. “What brings you in so early today?”

Harry dropped into his own couch. “Remember last month when James and Theresa dragged me to Paris with them and the kids for a holiday?”

“The one where you took Timothy and Charlie into the hotel bar and proceeded to get them both sloshed?” Draco asked and grinned when Harry nodded.

“Timothy was of age. It’s not the first time he’s been drunk.”

“No, but Charlie wasn’t quite seventeen.”

“He has to learn sooner or later.”

“You’re such a child, Harry.”

“I refuse to grow old gracefully.”

“It’s a wonder Theresa didn’t ban you from seeing the boys ever again.”

“We’ve been over that. She knows they were completely safe. At least I didn’t take the two younger ones in. I think even James would have hexed me if I’d taken his precious, innocent little girls drinking.”

“Those girls are as innocent as you are.”

“No need to remind me, I was the one who told you about catching Erica and the boyfriend under the stairs last Christmas.”

“Yes, I know. At least it wasn’t Cassandra. She’s way too young.”

Harry laughed. “Are you getting all mature in your old age, then?”

“You must be rubbing off on me,” Draco grumbled, giving Harry a glare. “Bloody Gryffindors.”

“I haven’t been a Gryffindor for more than fifty years,” Harry protested.

“Merlin, when you say that, it makes it seem like a lifetime ago,” Draco replied, face dropping into seriousness. After a moment his smile reappeared. “Besides, once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor.”

“Ahh, so once a snake, always a snake, then?”

“Touché. Anyway, get to the point. I do remember that holiday.”

“Well,” Harry began, grinning secretively. “I have a gift for you. Notice anything different?”

Draco frowned and looked him up and down, right from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, then shook his head. “Not particularly. Unless you’re expecting me to tell you to get your gear off.” Draco’s smirk came out to play. “I will if you want me to.”

Harry laughed and stood up. “No, you wanker, although I am sure you cannot wait to see my naked arse all wrinkled and old, it’s not that.”

“What is it then?” Harry could see that Draco was excited but terribly confused. How could Harry buy a portrait a present?

“Look around the room.”

Eyes fixed on the way Draco’s gaze tracked around the room, Harry noticed the second Draco saw the gift. His mouth dropped open and he went very still.

“Harry?”

“I know it’s one of your favourite places and I knew you’d love to see it again, so this was the best I could do.”

Draco took off through the several portraits until he reached the new one hanging in pride of place next to the Manor garden.

“It’s just how I remember it.”

“The apple and pear orchards are gone now and part of the Palace was destroyed in a terrorist bomb blast back in the thirties, but most of the gardens with the statues and water ponds where children sail boats are still there.”

“Luxembourg gardens,” Draco breathed, barely listening to Harry. This was the place he’d wanted to show Teddy on his first trip outside the Manor in ten years. This was the place that he’d wanted to see once more before he set his plan in motion to kill himself and Potter. Draco choked up at the conflicting emotions flowing through him.

As he looked out over the garden, it almost felt like he was back there. The artist had painted it on a sunny day, there were several white puffy clouds looking like they’d been scudding across the sky in a joyous tribute to the sun, while the pond had tiny waves painted in to make it appear like the breeze had whipped up just enough to carry the sailboats around jauntily.

Draco could hardly take it all in and Harry was still speaking, though all he could hear was the roaring in his ears. He forced himself to take notice when he heard the word ‘fountain’.

“What? What did you say?”

“I said I remember you mentioning that your mother used to take you to the fountain tucked away on the north side behind some trees, so I had the artist search it out and include that, too. Did you know what the fountain was called?”

Draco shook his head, eyes darting to the area where the trees were clumped together, their branches affording secure shelter for the ornate fountain, offering it a peaceful cool buffer against the summer heat. “I was too young to know to take heed of names. I always just knew it as the fountain near the Palace.”

“It’s called the Fontaine de Medicis,” Harry said and Draco turned it over on his tongue, finding he liked the way the French sounded on his tongue. He smiled, then, finding in his imagination that he was five-years-old again and his mother had told him to run and find the treasure behind the trees.

There were tears in his eyes as he ran towards the trees, hope gathering breathlessly in his lungs, excitement at everything warm and fresh and secure shrouding him in pure ecstatic joy. His hair streamed behind him as he ran across the perfectly manicured lawns, the fact he couldn’t smell it lost in the rush of delight at feeling the grass between his toes. He could have lost the loosely tied robe he was wearing for all he cared and it flapped around his legs as he extended his stride, Harry’s voice becoming fainter, submerged in Draco’s expectations.

He didn’t know exactly what he expected; he knew many years had passed since he’d been there and nothing ever remains unchanged, but what he hadn’t expected was to find it exactly the same. He stopped, heart pounding, at the iron railing at the end of long, rectangular water basin. The grotto was exactly how he remembered. When he was a child he’d snickered at the naked body of the woman. His mother had told him it was art and he should be ashamed of himself for treating it as anything else but beauty. He’d nodded at the time and from then on had always been reverent around great works of art, but he was only five-years-old and hadn’t really understood, so the snickering had continued until much later.

The ravages of time had been visible even back then and they seemed no different now. Perhaps the groundskeepers periodically maintained the area. The seats surrounding the water basin were newer, although they still looked the same. Maybe the trees were taller, too. But the overall impression was a flood of memories of a time when he’d felt safe; the innocence of childhood, the total and complete understanding that you were loved and cared for and nothing bad would ever happen to you. From the time he was five-years-old until the week before he’d left for Hogwarts, Draco had lived with that beautiful childish view of the world and this place, where they’d visited every summer until then, was cemented firmly in his heart.

Right there, on that seat, his mother had sat with him, her arm warm on his shoulder as they’d watched a family of ducks swimming in the water. The filtered light allowed through the canopy of the trees had made the air subtle and cool, a calming sanctuary on a hot Parisian day.

He could see the Palace in the background; the artist had even managed to get glimpses of that right, although there wasn’t much to see from within this grotto. Even as a child Draco had not cared for the Palace, instead preferring to play around the fountain. When there had been no one around, his mother had used magic to charm little boats to skip over the water.

It was peace…

“I wasn’t sure what season to have him paint it in but he was there in summer so I let him do that. I can ask him to do more if you’d rather a different scene. He tells me that it’s stunning in autumn.”

Harry’s voice broke the silence. Draco thought he might feel resentful that Harry intruded on his peace, but surprisingly it felt appropriate and like he was expected in order to make this picture complete. It made Draco whimper inside as to what that might mean, though he kept his embarrassing noises to himself.

“I bet it is. No this is just how I remember it, Harry. I used to love the summer flowering colours in those huge urns along the fence. This whole place was green. Green from the trees, there was green residue around the water, even the water reflected the green trees, but those urns were a splash of vibrant…something…” Draco took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. “Thank you,” he breathed softly, though no less sincerely.

He turned to face Harry, finding him close to the side of the portrait. His arm reached out, wanting to trace the lines on this man’s face. This man who, if he knew the truth about why he had a painted form of him hanging in the dungeon, would have all the portraits burned.

Draco found himself unable to articulate just what he felt about Harry at times.

Sometimes it was a burning hatred still. At times when the man frustrated him beyond words he wanted to reach out and shake him from his stupidity. The horrible time when the Weasley son, Ron’s son, Hugo, died and Harry went into a blue funk that lasted several months. Draco wanted to kick Harry, or Potter as he’d reverted to calling him he was that annoyed, and remind him that he was not responsible for Hugo’s death. How dare he take on guilt that wasn’t his to claim? All the old resentful feelings returned; although Draco had long since resigned himself to his lot. At least he’d assumed he had. When the long forgotten hate returned he’d been surprised and not a little disturbed, until he realised that he was feeling jealous. Jealous that Harry felt guilty for Hugo’s death from a concealed curse on an historical item Harry was purchasing for the museum and yet, he’d felt no guilt over his complicit part in Draco’s death. Hugo was a curse breaker like his famous uncle should have known better. At the very least he should have known to use protective wards while he worked on something untested. Draco was jealous that someone else had the right to Harry’s guilt and strong emotions, where Draco didn’t.

That had been enough for him to realise that he really had moved on from hate. To what, he still had yet to work out. If he had been alive there would be no doubt Draco would be carrying a rather large crush on Harry; he knew himself and knew how his emotions traveled.

But there were two rather large obstacles.

One was that he was a portrait. Even if he could overcome that one and exist with a forever-unrequited crush on Harry, he knew that Harry could not see past him being a portrait. There was no future in it for either of them. Especially knowing that Harry would hate him when he found out about the real reason he was hanging in the dungeon and that he’d no chance of ever leaving the Ballroom portraits.

So, that left him in an odd place of wanting, but refusing to allow himself to want, because it would hurt him less later on.

It still didn’t stop him from flirting. It was such fun to engage in harmless flirting that he couldn’t refuse himself that one small pleasure. And he knew Harry appreciated how beautiful he was, because he made it very obvious. At times, Draco thought of showering late and deliberately leaving the door open when he knew Harry was about to arrive. Harry was always playfully complimentary when he accidentally came across Draco naked.

But Draco hadn’t crossed the line and deliberately done anything like that. Yet. He rather equated Harry’s appreciation of him as like that of someone watching good porn. Slightly interactive porn, but porn all the same.

Where you could look but never touch.

And ultimately that was as unsatisfying for him as it was for Harry.

No matter that Harry closed his eyes now and tried to lean into Draco’s hand, Draco couldn’t feel it and Harry’s cheek ended up looking flattened as it pressed against the canvas.

The sharp realization of not having what he wanted made Draco pull back quickly, lest he become too mired in melancholy. Harry had done this wonderful thing for him and he should be bursting with joy instead of pining for something he could never have.

“Thank you, Harry. I will spend many long days in this wonderful, beautiful place.”

Harry blinked a few times and stepped back, an uncustomary blush staining his cheeks.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I often think you must get so bored in just these few rooms all the time. It must be worse even than your house arrest.”

“It is worse,” Draco acknowledged. “There are only so many things a portrait can recreate, you know?” Draco sighed. “And then when I was under house arrest at least I had hope that it would end some day. This will go on forever, won’t it?”

“Until someone destroys the paintings, then yes, I assume it will carry on until the paint fades from the canvas.”

Which wasn’t going to be any time soon, Draco knew. Burning with the fever of revenge he’d had the artist use special paint; paint that was guaranteed never to fade or crack and peel. It was intended to last forever, just as his revenge had.

“There’s one other thing in the painting. You will have to search for it though.” Draco turned to look at Harry, one eyebrow raised in question. “I saw it in Paris and couldn’t resist. I knew it would suit you perfectly.”

“What is it?”

“Go and look. I think the artist painted it in a sheltered spot in the grotto of the fountain to keep it safe.”

Curious, Draco walked around the cast iron fence to the statues at the end of the water basin, looking for anything out of place on the steps or tucked into one of the statues. He saw what looked like a huge soft pillow and as he neared he noticed that there was something sitting in the middle. He found a smile on his face when he recognised that curled up in the middle of the soft cushion was a tiny pure white kitten, sound asleep.

“Oh.”

“Do you like her? I don’t know how long it will take her to ‘wake’. Maybe several years, she was only a kitten when I found her. And she was very pampered too, so she may live a very long life.”

“She’s beautiful, Harry.”

“I thought that as I was taking your suggestion and traveling more that you could do with some company while I’m gone. And she’s just like you.”

Draco turned his gaze to Harry. “She’s haughty and aloof and will suck up to you to get what she wants, but underneath all that, she’s adorable,” Harry said, smiling tenderly. “And talk about spoilt,” he continued quickly as if to hide from the admission he found Draco adorable. But it was too late; Draco had already heard him and he smirked.

“I’m adorable, am I?”

“I thought I said, haughty and aloof and spoilt,” Harry retorted, looking anywhere but at Draco.

“But underneath, adorable.”

“Maybe deep down underneath where no one ever sees, because I certainly don’t.”

Draco laughed then, all traces of his melancholy gone and his joy returned. Today was a fantastic day, fucking wonderful. As days go.

“Chicken,” Draco griped playfully. Harry lifted his chin defiantly, a smirk playing on his lips. Draco let him get away with this one. He deserved some leniency today.

12

2050

Periodically, there would be spaces of a week at a time when Harry didn’t come to spend time with him. Those days made Draco extremely lonely. He’d grown used to having Harry’s company in the past forty years and, at some point without his knowledge, he’d become dependant on Harry for his emotional stability.

He suspected that was why Harry had the kitten painted into the portrait of Luxembourg gardens. Part of him wanted the kitten to wake up so he could hold her and cuddle her right now but the more sensible part told him that if that happened then the poor kitten would have died in real life. No, he was content to wait. He had an eternity to wait and spend with his pretty kitten, so a few years or decades wasn’t going to make much difference in the long run.

Naming her could wait, too, until he discerned what type of personality she had so he could choose appropriately.

It had been two weeks, though, since Harry had been to see him last and Draco was becoming worried. Not only worried about Harry and wondering if he was all right – he’d taken to running to the dungeon about ten times a day in order to make sure Harry hadn’t woken up - but also wondering what would happen to him if Harry just went missing or was ill and couldn’t leave hospital.

“Either die or be here, Harry,” he muttered to himself several times a day. “Don’t just leave me in ignorance here all by myself.”

Draco wracked his brain to see if he’d forgotten that Harry told him he was going away or if there was some rare artifact he was hunting down overseas for the museum, but there wasn’t anything. Surely, if something were wrong with Harry someone would come and tell him. Maybe not Lily; Draco was more than aware that Harry’s daughter was not impressed by the amount of time Harry spent with him and he tried to be gracious about it, but he generally failed.

She was the source of most of their arguments, if the truth were told. Draco understood, in a way, because he’d think it weird too if someone spent all their spare time talking with a portrait. Unhealthy he’d say. But Harry didn’t spend all his spare time with Draco. It actually only added to no more than a few hours at night after all Harry’s family duties were completed. Times when Harry would be settling for the night to read a book or watch a movie. Draco took no time away from Harry’s family so, to Draco, it wasn’t unhealthy at all.

And it was that point he and Harry argued over because Draco flatly refused to see that Lily had a point about it being unhealthy, whereas Harry allowed it might be but, seeing as he was happy to do it and it didn’t affect any other part of his life, he wasn’t going to answer to anyone about it. Draco usually ended by angrily calling Lily some unflattering name like a selfish cow, and Harry stormed out and didn’t come back for a few days.

It used to make Draco fume to think of the smugness of Lily Potter, now Jamieson, smirking when she successfully got Harry to not spend time with Draco.

He tried to be mature about it; he did.

But Harry was all he had. Lily had her whole family and all her friends and Harry as well. All Draco asked for was some company at the end of the day. It wasn’t too much to ask. Lily had her own life away from Harry and so Harry was entitled to his own life away from his daughter.

He would grudgingly admit that his and Harry’s friendship was not conventional but they had never had a conventional relationship. If both of them had been allowed to have a normal childhood, then possibly they would have been friends in a more conventional way. As it was, this was all Draco had, and he’d be damned if he would give it up without a fight.

Not that he could actually do anything about it when no one came to see him. How did you fight someone if you had no access to them? Draco’s worry and sense of solitude had become so acute that he’d taken to scouring the newspaper three or four times every day in order to double check that he’d missed nothing. Obsessive, yes, but it was the only way to satisfy himself that nothing bad had happened to Harry.

It did cross his mind that Harry had simply grown tired of spending time with a portrait. After all, it wasn’t as if he was alive and could be touched or kissed or held, or touch or kiss or hold in return, for that matter. A portrait could be ignored because they weren’t real people, were they? If Harry thought like that, Draco would be terribly disappointed in him because he thought they’d moved past the fact that their relationship had no physical basis; transcended the need for an actual presence before there could be a real friendship.

Harry was better than that.

No, there must be some urgent matter that Harry was dealing with that prevented him from visiting and he’d just have to wait patiently for Harry to return or for either Al or Scorpius to let him know what was going on.

Which was why he was incredibly surprised to have his evening meal interrupted by Lily Jamieson, nee Potter.

The woman was in her early forties now and was showing faint lines around her eyes. Although, allowed Draco, these might be a result of the scowl on her face at present. He could see that she looked just like her mother, although the hair was duller than he remembered the she-weasel’s being. Not that he’d seen her in more than fifty years anyway.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

The tone in her voice dispelled any hopes Draco had of this being a pleasant visit.

“Mrs. Jamieson.”

Draco was pleased to note that she cringed at the formal address. Like she was annoyed that he was so up to date on who she was and whom she had married.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Draco asked her politely, fully aware that he might get some answers from her regarding Harry’s whereabouts.

“My father will be returning to the Manor tomorrow. He is very distressed over the death of my Grandmother. I have no doubt that he will spend some time in here with you.” Her nose turned up at that and Draco had a sudden vision of his father behaving in exactly the same way when he thought he was dealing with someone beneath him. How dare she? He was a Malfoy and she a mere cross between a blood traitor and a half blood. Some old prejudices rose to the surface then and he simmered. “I would rather he didn’t. He needs his real family around him now. People who truly care for him and not some inanimate, selfish piece of work like you.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but that was the only alteration to his facial expression he allowed. He was better than her and refused to show how her words hurt or angered him. “I think what Harry wants is something for him to decide on his own, don’t you?”

“You have him under some sort of thrall,” she spat back at him. “Everyone thinks he’s becoming senile in his old age. Talking to portraits, befriending portraits, falling in lo—” she stopped abruptly. “I do not appreciate people thinking that the hero, the Chosen One is growing senile.”

No, Draco thought, you’re just embarrassed that you’re related to him. You ungrateful, spiteful bitch. You do not appreciate just what a treasure you have in your father. “As you have so kindly pointed out, I am nothing but a mere portrait and therefore can have no influence on Harry or his life. I assure you that he is not senile and I do not have him under some sort of thrall.”

“You’ve done something to him. You’re sick and vile.”

Such vitriol coming from someone who should have been mature enough to know better behaviour. She must be really upset. “I’m neither of those things, I assure you, madam.”

Lily huffed. “It’s pointless arguing with you.” She moved closer to the portrait, coming face to face with Draco. “You find a way to make my father leave you alone or I will come in here and burn every single one of these portraits until you are no more than dust under my shoe.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’d do that in your father’s house?”

“I would to get him away from you.” She turned and walked back towards the door, before facing him one last time. “You might want to reassess your opinions of yourself.” She pointed to the portrait of Harry chained up in the dungeon. “You don’t call that sick and vile?”

Then she flounced out of the room, leaving Draco’s heart hammering in his chest and his thoughts awhirl with the shock of the attack. In amongst the chaos, he managed to discern that Molly Weasley had died, Harry was distressed about it and Harry was giving the impression that he’d fallen in love with Draco to others. No wonder they thought him senile.

He couldn’t help the warm glow that spread through him at the thought, though it lasted only long enough for Draco to realise how hopeless it all was.

He gave up on his dinner and went for a walk in his recently acquired garden, sighing when even that failed to lift his mood again.


.o0o.


“It seemed appropriate.”

“You really didn’t have to, you know. I can’t imagine why you would even think of me at a time like that.”

Harry shrugged. “I kept thinking that at least all the Weasleys had a place to go to pay their respects to Molly and Arthur and you had nothing, even though you’re…”

“Dead myself, yes I understand, Harry, you don’t have to keep tiptoeing around it. I accepted it many years ago.”

“I know. It just felt weird commissioning a picture of the graveyard. There wasn’t even anything left of him to bury. You know that there’s just a memorial plaque there alongside your mother’s grave marker, and your own. You’re lucky in a way that the Ministry decided to place you all together.”

“I’m sure Andromeda probably organised that,” Draco replied, walking through the pictures to the graveyard. “Why do all artists insist on making cemeteries dark and foreboding?” He shivered at an imagined chill as he made his way to the grave markers. He’d come empty handed today as Harry had only just hung the new portrait in his first visit after Molly’s death. Tomorrow he’d cut flowers from the garden to decorate the sites.

“I have no idea,” Harry replied, sitting down on the couch, tiredly.

The plaques didn’t say a lot, just names and dates, but it gave Draco some sense of belonging seeing his name alongside his parents’ names. He’d been alive once; he’d had a family once, as dysfunctional as it was in the end.

When Harry sighed softly, he glanced up. “Are you all right? You look tired.”

Harry rubbed his face underneath his glasses. Draco noticed that he was beginning to look his age. He wished that he could sit beside him and lend some comfort to this man who’d made his existence so comfortable by being so thoughtful.

“I am tired. It was hard seeing them all grieving again. Ginny’s bitterness grows year by year and she has Ron for company now. He barely speaks to me anymore; I think he blames me for Hugo’s death. Hermione tries to make up for him, but…” Harry stopped and sighed.

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“I thought that after the war was over that we’d all be able to be happy. Voldemort was everything that was wrong in my life and with him gone, I thought that life would be wonderful, you know?”

“I do,” Draco replied, even though he knew Harry wasn’t really looking for a response.

“I think I’d forgotten that death never really goes away, it comes for us all at some point. Death and illness. And it takes whom it wants regardless of how much they’re loved or needed.”

“It’s indiscriminant,” Draco agreed.

“Over the years,” Harry continued as if Draco hadn’t spoken, “I’ve lost many people. During the war you expect it though those deaths are no less tragic. But there are still people dying from the effects of the war. Bill, a few years ago as a result of the wounds he received from Fenrir all those years ago. Now Molly. Kingsley’s gone, both Hermione’s parents, McGonagall. Remember Trelawney? She managed to prophesise her own death. Sometimes it feels like everyone I know is dying, Draco.”

“It might seem like that, but you’re here, your friends are still here and you have all your family beside you and their children. And isn’t one of James’ brood about to marry? There’ll be great grandchildren on the way soon.”

Harry smiled at that thought. “You’re right, I know that. Losing Molly is like losing the only mother figure I ever had though. I can’t imagine the family without her; she’s always just been there, ordering everyone around in that way she had of making us feel guilty if we didn’t help out.” He gave a small laugh. “We used to escape outside and de-gnome the garden so we didn’t have to set the table or peel potatoes. Sometimes Ron would bribe the gnomes to come back into the garden just so he’d have an excuse not to help in the kitchen.”

“Must have been fun.” Draco was fairly positive that it would have been anything but fun, but he wasn’t about to cast aspersions on the Weasleys at this point in time. That would not be comforting to Harry.

“It was, you know, family. And as much as they fought and argued and had nothing in the way of money, they had everything in the way of love and family and always showed me such great loyalty. Molly especially. She treated me as one of her own.” Harry’s voice became really quiet. “I’m going to miss her terribly.”

Draco spoke up just as quietly. “I remember being envious of Weasley once,” he said. “Near the end of the final battle when Mrs. Weasley killed my Aunt Bella while defending Ginny. I knew I had a mother who would have done the same, but she didn’t stand up to Voldemort. I don’t suppose anyone could have, but Bella was the most powerful witch I’ve ever seen, next to Voldemort, and Mrs. Weasley stood up to her. It made me envious.”

“Your mum did plenty to save you, Draco, don’t diminish her attempts to protect you. She did what she could.”

“Oh, I know, and believe me I know what she did, but back then, in that moment, I didn’t know about the Unbreakable vow, and I was envious.” Draco smiled softly. “Ever the selfish brat, huh? Always wanting what I didn’t have.”

“Nice to see not everything changes.” Harry smiled back and Draco knew he’d be all right.

“Exactly. Besides I usually get what I want.”

“I hardly think you wanted to spend an eternity trapped in a portrait, or series of them.”

That wiped the smile off Draco’s face, because that was exactly what he had wanted at the time. An eternity of torturing and humiliating Harry bloody Potter had been all he’d been able to think about.

“Well don’t you go dying on me yet. You’re still a young wizard and should have many long years ahead of you.”

“I grow tired of living, Draco, but my family needs me still.”

“Harry, stop this nonsense. Seventy is still young in the wizarding world. By the time you’re ready to go you’ll have great, great, great, great grandchildren. Hundreds of them.” Draco smiled. “Imagine! Hundreds of redheads running around willy nilly and polluting everything in sight.” He grinned slyly at Harry, letting him know he was joking. It was a testament to their friendship that Harry read his grin easily and rolled his eyes.

“All right, you’ve made your point. I’m not ready for the scrap heap yet. I get it. There’s something to be said for a healthy childhood though. Early malnutrition obviously did something to the strength of my body and bones because I can feel the effects of aging already.”

“How do you mean?”

“I can predict the change in the weather,” Harry replied with a smile on his face. At Draco’s questioning look, he continued. “My arm aches when the weather is about to change. Remember in second year how Lockhart removed all the bones in my arm?” Draco nodded, grinning. That had been hilarious. “Well, even though it’s been repaired, it’s never been as strong as the other arm and it aches when the weather changes.”

“You thought of hiring yourself out as a barometer?” Draco laughed.

“Laugh away, funny boy,” Harry retorted playfully. “We’ll see how funny you think it when I put the wards back up and stop anyone but me from coming here.”

Draco stopped laughing, though not for the reasons Harry probably thought. It had reminded him of Lily’s threat. “Can you adjust the wards to specific people?” Draco knew wards could be done like that but he didn’t know if Harry knew how to do that.

Harry nodded, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing but…well, would it be all right if you warded against anyone but you and Al and Scorpius coming in here unaccompanied? The children might come in alone and ruin one of the paintings by accident.” Blaming the grandchildren was always a good excuse. So what if they thought him an arrogant snob.

He could always tell Harry what Lily threatened but Harry didn’t need to hear that sort of thing and he probably wouldn’t believe Draco anyway. It would just provoke an argument and then Harry wouldn’t come back for days, weeks even. No, much better to get what he wanted another way.

“That might not be a bad idea, actually. That bastard of a husband of Lily’s cheated on her and so she’s moving in here with the kids for a while until they get things sorted out.”

“Oh.” Thank Merlin he’d thought to ask then or else Lily would have been in here immediately, demanding to know what he’d done to stop Harry visiting.

“Yeah. The house will be full of kids, what with Al and Scorpius’ three and Lily’s three.”

“Right,” Draco replied weakly, sure that Lily would find some way to step in between Harry and himself. 
 

13 

2050

“Nice to have you home again, Father,” Lily said as she hugged Harry.

“I was only gone a few days, Lily,” he replied, grinning and hugging her back. It was good to be home and see everyone again. The quiet of his hotel room was daunting after becoming used to six young people of various ages running riot in the Manor. And if they all managed to have their friends around at the same time, it was bedlam. Luckily, Lily’s kids were working during the day and Al and Scorpius’ were at school but come weekends it was like Kings Cross station on the first day of term at Hogwarts.

“Come into the parlour, I’ve made afternoon tea for us,” she said. “Al and Scorpius will see us at dinner, of course, so it will be just you and I until the children are home from school.”

“Lovely. I’ll just put these things away and meet you there.”

“Oh, don’t worry about those. Let the house-elves do it. Just leave them in the entrance and let them do their job.”

“All right, well, I will have to take this into Draco first. I don’t trust the elves with it.” Harry held up a package that was rather obviously a painting, wrapped in brown paper for travelling.

“Now, Father, don’t you worry yourself about that portrait. You just come in and rest after your journey and let someone else take care of your purchases.”

Harry frowned. “Lily? What are you doing? I am neither tired nor infirm and I resent that you appear to be of the mistaken opinion that I’m becoming senile or losing my marbles.”

“Of course not, Father, I just think that you’re getting on in years and should be taking things easy now, rather than tiring yourself out with unnecessary things.”

“There is nothing wrong with me, Lily, as you well know. I am well aware of your distaste for the time I spend speaking with Draco and your attempts to get me to stop are clumsy at best. This is my house and I will thank you not to interfere with any enjoyment I derive from living here.”

“He’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he? You even sound like him.”

“When did you speak to him? The wards are set to only let a few people through.” Harry tried to recall if Lily had ever spoken to Draco.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lily replied hurriedly, moving towards the parlour.

Harry reluctantly rested the picture against the wall and followed her.

“What’s going on?’

“Nothing, Father. Why have the wards been set to refuse me entry to the Ballroom?”

“Draco was worried that with so many children living in the house that one of them might come into the ballroom and damage one of the paintings.”

Lily looked at him as if expecting something else; what he had no idea. But when he didn’t continue, she looked away as if that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “Right. All right, that makes sense.”

“Why are you here at this time of day? Don’t you have a paper to run?”

“Not much for me to do these days. I seem to be able to hire decent staff and the manager doesn’t need my help except with the editorial. Will you lift the wards on the Ballroom, please?”

Her defiance was unnerving Harry and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, that will be up to Draco. It’s up to him who he wants to see.”

Lily looked incredulous. “But this is your house, you have the authority here, not him.”

“Yes and I have to live with him if he’s in a snit because he’s bothered by people he doesn’t want to see. So, it is easier to set the wards to allow only those he wants to see. I will ask him if he wants to see you.”

“He’s sitting in there, all high and mighty, accepting or rejecting people like they’re asking for an audience?”

“No, it’s not like that at all,” Harry protested.

“Yes it is. He has his own little kingdom in there. And you’re too stupid and blind to see what he’s doing.” She was getting angry now and flecks of spittle sprayed from her lips. Harry went very cold and still.

“I don’t believe I asked for your opinion, Lily, so I’ll thank you to keep it to yourself.”

“I’m your daughter!” Lily yelled. “I have more right to anything than that portrait. It should be reduced to nothing more than a pile of flammable rags one can throw a match on.”

She seemed to realise that she had gone too far and closed her mouth but she still held a defiant tilt to her chin and unrepentant glint in her eyes.

“What do you have against him? He can’t hurt you. He is, as you so kindly pointed out, a portrait. He has no magic, cannot ever leave that room and has no connection to the outside world other than what I tell him.”

“He’s just…taken you away from us all. You talk about him as if he’s your lover. People think you are going senile and you’re embarrassing all of us.” She was petulant now, though, so certain that she was right. Harry could almost see the way her mind worked. She thought that once Harry knew he was being made a fool of, he’d come round to her way of thinking and admit he was wrong.

“Why do you care what anyone thinks of me? I never have. People have said worse things than that about me. I don’t care. I’m sorry if you’re embarrassed. You sound so much like your mother.”

He hadn’t meant to say that to her – it was no compliment - but he was so angered over her superficiality that it slipped out. Her face crumpled and he felt awful that she was in pain but he wasn’t going to have her lash out at whoever happened to be around.

“I know you’ve been badly hurt by Mattie’s cheating but that’s not an excuse to take your pain out on me.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I…” She broke down sobbing and Harry gathered her in his arms and held her. She was still his little princess, even though she was a mother herself now. “I can’t seem to do anything right, these days. First Mattie, and I tried, Daddy, I really tried to get past it, but the more we agreed to be honest with each other and talk about our problems, the more women I found out about and then it just seemed like I didn’t even know him anymore. Maybe never had.”

Harry was not surprised to find out that his son-in-law had such a history of cheating on Lily. He remembered the advice Teddy had given him all those years ago when Lily and Mattie were still dating and there had been rumours about Mattie’s habits while on a tour to America. It was lucky that Mattie was not present or Harry would have had a hard time refraining from doing the man some serious damage for hurting his little girl like this. As he held a still sobbing Lily in his arms, he vowed to help his daughter in what ever way he could. Taking her anger out on him and Draco wasn’t going to help her get back on her feet or build up her confidence in herself again.

When she seemed to be reduced to sniffles, he judged the worst of it to be over and stepped back a little, fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket to give to her. She blew her nose and continued. “And now the manager at the paper says that I don’t even need to be there anymore. Me! The editor! I feel like I’ve been ousted from my own paper.” She sniffed and Harry hugged her again. “And Draco was an easy target, he can’t fight back.”

“I know. But you’re well rid of Mattie and you’ll find someone better, if that’s what you want. If not, then you’ll have a great life anyway. As for the paper, did I raise you to be a quitter? To let people walk all over you whenever they feel like it? No. If you want your paper back, go and fire your manager. You still run it, so go and stand up for yourself.”

Lily looked at him for a long moment and then smiled through her tears. “You’re right, Daddy. The paper is mine and I don’t have to let some sniveling arse of a manager steal it out from under me.”

“That’s more like the Lily I know.”

She nodded. “I still would like to speak to you about Draco,” she warned. “I’m still not happy about the time you spend with him. But it can wait for another day, I need to get back to the office and kick the manager’s arse.” She caught sight of herself in a mirror on the wall. “After I go and clean myself up, I look a fright.”

Harry laughed. “Off you go then.” He hugged her. “Don’t ever forget I love you and am very proud of you.”

Lily hugged him back, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, Daddy, I love you, too.”



.o0o.



Draco thought it was funny that he had begun to take even more meticulous care with his attire. Certainly, Harry didn’t notice, but then Harry wasn’t the type to be swayed by finely combed hair or exquisitely made robes. Harry was more likely to appreciate the swell of his arse or the smooth contours of his chest.

Or perhaps the smile on his face. To be completely honest with himself, he loved seeing Harry’s face light up in genuine pleasure when Draco smiled a real, open smile.

Dressing and grooming well always made Draco feel better, though. Always had. It made him feel more in control of something. Even when he was alive, he’d enjoyed dressing well. His father had insisted upon it as befitting a Malfoy but Draco had chosen his own clothes, finding that if he had no control over what was happening in his life, he at least could control how he looked.

He had such little influence over anything about his existence these days, only in what order he did things on a daily basis. He could have breakfast late, or not at all. He could decide where to spend his days and what he did, but it was a restricted choice, the boundaries very clearly delineated and defined.

Harry had given him more choices, and Draco would be forever grateful for those. He now had a wide variety of music he could listen to instead of playing the harp for himself. He could read the newspaper every day, as long as he remembered his manners to get the pages turned. There was somewhere for him to go to remember his parents, more particularly his mother, and he now had a further sanctuary to play in.

He supposed it was gratitude that made him want to preen and show off a little for Harry. The flirting between them had continued – how could it develop into anything else – and there was an attraction there albeit not an openly acknowledged one. Draco recognised that it was only because of his terrible secret that he was holding himself back from admitting to Harry he’d fallen for him. So many times he’d gone to finally tell Harry about the reason he was tied up in the dungeon and the restrictions on him after he died, but he’d been too scared that it would destroy their friendship and that Harry would destroy the painting. And after that, even if all Harry did was to abandon him, then Draco would be doomed to be alone for all eternity until age ruined the paint in his portrait and the spells dissipated.

Perhaps it would be better not to tell him anything at all. Feign ignorance when Harry realised he couldn’t leave the Ballroom. That would work… but then Draco was developing too much respect for Harry to lie to him like that. At least so far this was only a lie of omission.

He sighed as he stripped off his outdoor clothes and dropped them on the chair in the corner of his bedroom. For a moment he contemplated taking a shower; freshening up after his walk would make him feel clean but he reckoned it was getting late and Harry was expected soon, back from his trip to Italy.

Pleasure fluttered sweetly in his stomach when he thought of seeing Harry again. It had only been a few days - it had been a work trip - but still Draco missed him.

He moved slowly, choosing his clothes carefully, though part of him wanted to stay naked, push Harry into appreciating him. And whilst he had nothing against a little manipulation, it came with associated guilt and a sense of futility. If Draco wasn’t careful he could fall into a depression over the fact that he was never going to be able to do anything about this crush.

More than a crush, if he were to have to describe it to anyone.

So, it was completely by accident that Draco was dressed only in a shirt when Harry entered the Ballroom.

Not displeased, however, Draco smiled as he turned away from Harry to button up his shirt.

“Don’t dress on my account,” Harry said. “I like looking at you. And your arse is a spectacular view.” Predictable, Draco thought, pleased as punch.

“Well, you’re already getting a good view of my arse, what more do you want?”

“You want the truth? Even from an old guy like me?”

“Of course, Harry, you’re too noble to lie to me.” Draco smirked, hiding a twinge if guilt that he couldn’t say the same thing about himself.

He stopped dressing but didn’t turn around, instead busied himself by pretending to do up another button.

“Well, truthfully, I want to watch you use a big fat dildo on yourself so I can imagine it’s me fucking that tight little arse.”

Shocked, and not a little turned on by that statement if the twitching at his groin was any indication, Draco turned and stared at Harry.

“And what makes you think I have any big fat dildos in here?”

“I don’t. Wishful thinking on my part. Yours too by the look of it.” Harry looked down at Draco’s groin, which had taken a decidedly interested position, poking out from between his shirttails.

Draco bit his lip, not arguing with Harry. How could he? The evidence of how much the thought of a huge big dildo…all right, Harry, fucking him turned him on, was plain to see. He sat down on his bed weakly, knees already beginning to shake.

“Harry…”

“Too much for you?” Harry asked, lowering himself onto the couch.

Draco swallowed, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, but not answering.

“You don’t want to hear that I’d like to bend you over the table and fuck you?”

“It’s really unfair of you to say that when you can’t go through with it. Get me all worked up and wishing for nothing.”

“Are you all worked up?”

“I thought you said you could see.”

“I can see you’re hard, wasn’t sure how much of that was for what I said.”

“Harry.” Draco let out a shaky breath, his hand sneaking down to press against his throbbing cock. “I think it’s fair to say that the thought of you even touching me could make me hard. I wish…” He stopped there because this could not end well, only in more pining and futile wanting. And several nights of wanking alone and lonely in his bed wishing that Harry was with him.

“You wish, what?”

Draco shook his head, trying not to move his hips and thus rub his aching erection.

“How about I tell you what I wish for?” Harry said.

Raising his eyes to Harry’s bright green ones, Draco nodded.

To Draco, Harry looked much as he had fifty years ago. Though the hair was grey, it was still messy. The lines around Harry’s eyes had deepened, but the fire in them was still the same. When Harry stood, it took him longer to make his limbs work, but to Draco he looked strong and beautiful.

Harry moved until his nose was almost pressed against the canvas. His hand reached out and stroked over the canvas right where Draco’s legs were, over his knee and up along a thigh. Draco sighed sadly that he couldn’t feel it, but he watched Harry’s fingers, age having thickened some of the joints, making their movements stiff and jerky at times.

“I wish…” Harry started, whispering. “I wish I’d found out what you were like before now. I wish I’d fallen for you when we were at school.”

Harry’s hand slid over the canvas like he was cupping Draco’s groin and Draco sighed, a lost, forlorn sound.

“I’d give anything just to be able to touch you, Draco.” Harry’s voice was trembling, even as he was whispering.

“Harry…” Draco’s hand enfolded his cock and he began to stroke it, unable and unwilling not to. His head dropped back and he looked at Harry through slitted lids. “Tell me what you’d do with me if you could.”

“Oh, fuck, Draco…”

“Please, Harry. I’ve wanted you for years.”

“But, I’m too old… and we can’t…”

“I don’t care. Tell me what you’d do to me if you could.”

Draco saw Harry take a deep breath. “I’d have you just as you are, spread your legs a little so I could kneel between them, putting me in just the right spot to swallow down your glorious cock. Right to the base.”

The hoarse tones in Harry’s voice went right to Draco’s cock, which throbbed hotly. He tried to imagine Harry’s lips stretched around it and the mere thought made him shiver.


“Then I’d just stay still for a while, letting my throat convulse around your cock so deep inside. When I finally have to breathe, I’d pull back and begin to suck. Long, hard sucks, making a lot of noise, showing you how much I am enjoying having your cock in my mouth. Showing you how much I want your taste on my tongue, dominating my senses.”

The lump in Draco’s throat twisted hard and jagged and he couldn’t form words to express how much Harry’s need and his own made him ache.

“Lift your leg, Draco, expose your self to me.” Harry’s voice was rough and Draco did what he was told.

“Close your eyes, pretty. Use your fingers, push them deep inside yourself, one at a time and imagine it’s me.”

Merlin… Draco heaved a breath and closed his eyes, wondering if he was going to last long enough to get more than one finger inside himself. He soaked one finger in saliva, swirling it around on his tongue, before reaching down and slowly breaching his hole, shaking with tension and arousal, his other hand motionless around his erection, too scared to keep stroking for fear of coming and losing this wonderful intimacy that had sprung between them.

“Tell me how it feels, Draco.”

“It’s…it’s…” Draco whimpered softly, the feeling of being breached and imagining it was Harry was too intense and yet nowhere near intense enough. He just wanted it so damned much that the knowledge that he couldn’t have it overrode his imagination. “It’s not enough, Harry,” he sobbed softly. “It will never be enough.” The last was whispered as Draco’s voice failed him entirely.

“I know. Keep stroking yourself and riding your fingers. I want to watch you come for me.”

Draco heard Harry’s voice, so laden with emotion that he thought if he opened his eyes and looked at Harry, he might see suspiciously damp eyes. That would be too much for him to bear in his current frame of mind and so he silently complied, letting himself groan as a second and then third finger penetrated his gradually stretching hole.

“Harry…I want to see you.”

“You can open your eyes then, pretty.”

“No,” Draco said, biting back a gasp as his finger rubbed over his prostate. “I want to see you.”

“No, you don’t. I’m--”

“You are not! I want us to come together. Please?”

“Draco—”

“Please, Harry, I can’t hang on much longer.”

Draco could feel himself tightening all over, knew that the curling in his muscles meant that his orgasm was close. Every time he timed his stroking right and his thumb grazed the slit in the head of his cock, while his finger rubbed over his prostate, he felt his arousal hitch a notch higher and he knew he was going to come hard any minute.

He heard the faint chink of Harry unbuckling his belt and lowering the zipper of his trousers. Then a rustle of clothing meant Harry’s trousers and pants had been dropped to the floor and a soft groan indicated that Harry had hold of his cock and was stroking it.

Draco finally opened his eyes, wanting desperately both to come and to prolong this bliss. This was the first time he’d seen Harry even close to naked and even now he could barely see a thing, apart from still strong looking thighs, lickable hips and the tip of a very red prick poking from Harry’s fist as he stroked. To Draco it was like watching a slice of heaven and he must have hissed because Harry moved closer to the portrait and rested his forehead against Draco’s, locking their eyes together.

“You’re…Merlin, you’re beautiful, Harry,” Draco managed to say.

“I wish…God, how I wish we’d done this before.”

“No regrets, Harry. If this is what we have…shit…” Draco lost track of his words after that. His back arched and he came, spraying strands of come all over his side of the portrait.

He vaguely heard Harry swear and give a loud groan, which preceded soft splattering sounds of him coming over the portrait.

After several minutes spent recollecting himself, he admitted sadly that he’d been right.

His heart ached even more in his yearning for Harry.

14

2053

“Al?” Scorpius called. Harry could hear Scorpius calling for Al, but it seemed like so very far away and he couldn’t really pay much attention because there was something sitting on his chest and the pain seemed to fill his whole existence to the point where his vision wavered and he welcomed the slide into oblivion.


.o0o.



“…days, a week at least before he will be allowed home.”

That sounded like Hermione, Harry thought dreamily, rolling over and snuggling back down into his bed. She would have to wait; he was far too comfortable and still too sleepy to wake up. Time enough to see her later on.

Unfortunately, his movement seemed to provoke an onslaught of other voices all talking over each other.

“He’s awake!”

“Harry?”

“Wake up, please, wake up.”

“Don’t all crowd him at once.” Hermione again. Harry smiled to himself. She always did know when the attention got too much for him and shooed everyone away.

“If he’s waking up does that mean he’s going to be all right now?” That was Al. Harry recognised his voice. Who were they talking about and why were they all in his bedroom? These thoughts served to wake him enough to realise that it wasn’t his soft cotton pillowcase under his cheek, but a coarser material. Where was he then if not in his bedroom? He could wake properly and ask, but he didn’t want to appear to be vague or forgetful on top of…something else. What?

The last thing he remembered was…oh, pain in his chest. That probably meant that he was in the hospital.

His eyes opened and he blinked, staring unseeing at the wall of the hospital room. What had happened to him? Had he had a heart attack? That seemed a fairly logical assumption given what he knew.

How long had he been here and why did he feel so wonderful physically but his emotions dampened to the point that he hadn’t even had a reaction to the fact that he’d probably had a heart attack?

The voices were back, still speaking at him, so he sighed and rolled back over, looking blearily up into the concerned faces of Hermione and two of his children. And Scorpius.

“You had us worried there for a while, Harry,” Hermione said kindly, stroking his hair.

“Sorry,” he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m in the hospital I take it?”

She nodded. Al gripped at his hand and Lily sat on the side of his bed. “Don’t scare us like that again, Daddy,” Lily said.

“What happened?” Harry asked.

“You had a heart attack. Scorpius noticed you in trouble and brought you straight here. If he hadn’t acted so quickly…”

Harry’s eyes searched for Al’s partner, finding the blond man standing quietly in the corner, looking concerned but smiling at Harry anyway. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

A tiny little voice piped up in his head and argued that if he’d died, he’d have been able to be with Draco. That raised another question.

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days. You’ve been unconscious all that time. It was almost a blessing because it allowed us to run what tests we needed and administer the treatment without you interfering."

“I’m a good patient,” Harry protested. Hermione merely raised an eyebrow. “How long do I need to be in here? I feel fine now. Brilliant in fact.”

“That’s because you’re full of drugs. You’ll need to be here at least a few more days, then you’ll be on medication for some time in order to regulate your system.”

“And Scorpius and I will be monitoring you to make sure you look after yourself. We don’t want to lose you, Dad.”

“You’re like the rock holding our family together,” Lily agreed. Harry knew what she was talking about. Ginny had virtually lost contact with all of the children, preferring to spend her time abroad, flitting from one fading playboy to the next flashy toyboy looking for an easy life. It was sad, really. James kept up with her exploits when he read the trashy French newspapers occasionally, but other than that none of them had heard from Ginny for over a decade.

“I’ll look after myself, I promise,” Harry agreed. “As long as you bring my grandchildren in to see me.”

“We can do that,” Al said, beaming. “We’ve had an enormous amount of trouble with our Draco who wanted to be here the whole time.”

Harry chuckled. Al and Scorpius’ Draco was as blond as his namesake, being the offspring of Scorpius and a surrogate. Harry wondered if it was something at the Manor, because this Draco was growing up as a cocky, almost arrogant young man, just like the original Draco, only this one had the most mischievous grin Harry had ever seen on a child and it made the arrogance endearing rather than annoying.

“I’m sure I am up for visitors now, right, Hermione?”

“Yes, seeing as I would have to ward the door with unbreakable hexes to keep your family away from you. Only don’t let them tire you out too much, you’re still weak and need to take care.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry replied, pretending to be bowed into submission.

Hermione, though, had known him too long and flicked his forehead. “Watch yourself, Potter, or I’ll make you stay an extra month.”

Harry gasped. “You wouldn’t?”

“I would. I am Chief here and what I say goes.” She was grinning smugly, teasing. “I’ll assign some Healers to see to your everyday treatment, but you call me if you need anything at all. Understand?”

“I do.”

“And Ron will be in to see you later on.”

A slight frown crossed Harry’s face, but he smiled and nodded anyway. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Ron; it was more that ever since Hugo died, Harry was sure that Ron blamed him for his death. Not that he said that, even denied it, but every so often Harry would catch a glimpse of Ron when he didn’t think anyone was watching, like in a mirror, and he would see the frown on Ron’s face and the clenching of his jaw. As a result they’d lost a lot of the closeness they’d had and it saddened Harry greatly.

Scorpius stepped forward and pressed a hand to his arm. “It’s wonderful that you’re going to be all right. I’ll head home and bring our Draco in to see you.”

Harry smiled and nodded. “Has anyone thought to let Draco know?” He could tell by their looks that they hadn’t. He didn’t mind much. Mostly they teased him about having such a close relationship with a portrait but, to them, Draco was just a portrait while to Harry he was much, much more.

He did mind that Draco would worry though. “Will you see him when you go home?” he asked Scorpius.

“I will.” Scorpius pressed Harry’s wrist before turning to kiss Al goodbye. Harry smiled watching them. They’d been married eighteen years and they still showed each other genuine love and affection all the time. He was both jealous and proud of them. Scorpius was like one of his own children. Theo Nott had been a bit of an arse when Harry had asked him to visit Draco, so Harry always assumed that Astoria had been the one to do such a good job of raising Scorpius. Now that Al and Scorpius had Draco and they’d both taken the Malfoy name, the original Draco took great pride that there was a Draco Malfoy in the Manor once more.

Scorpius looked at Harry again. “I’ll organise permission for the girls to Floo here from Hogwarts. They’ve been pestering us almost hourly for updates on your condition.”

“Thanks, Scorpius,” Harry said.

Al gave Scorpius another quick kiss and then let him go.

“He’s a good man, Al.”

Al grinned. “Oh, I know. I wake up every day feeling like the luckiest bloke alive.”

“There’s a few of those around,” Harry said. “I have the best family in the world.”

Lily smiled and leaned in to hug Harry. “Even when we act like perfectly spoilt brats and behave extraordinarily badly?”

“Even then,” Harry said, hugging her back.

She pulled away. “I’ll go and let James know you’re all right, then. He said he’d grab an international Portkey as soon as he knows.”

“No need, Lily,” a voice spoke from the door. “Hermione let me know.”

“James,” Lily squealed and ran to hug him.

“Good to see you, too, sis.” He grinned and hugged her back. He released her and moved to Harry, leaning down to hug him. “Dad. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. Theresa needed me at home.”

Harry interrupted. “No need to apologise, I feel rather awkward about being here and being such an imposition to you all.”

“That’s just like you, Dad,” Al said. “You’re not an imposition on us. We love you and want to take care of you.”

Harry smiled at his children, feeling blessed. He was tired still, though he did feel pretty wonderful, as he wasn’t in any sort of pain. The discussion flowed around him as he rested, sometimes he’d add something to the conversation and at other times he just watched his children marveling at how terrific they were.

Soon enough he dropped off to sleep, knowing that as soon as Scorpius arrived back with Draco he’d need to have his wits about him.


.o0o.



Draco stretched on the deck chair half buried in the sand. The sun was bright and glinted off the water and the glare made him want his sunglasses, but the sun had no heat in it and the glare didn’t hurt his eyes at all. Still it was lovely to open his eyes and see the waters glittering in the sunlight. It was incredibly peaceful turning his head and imagining the palm trees swaying lightly.

The only thing to mar this perfect picture was that he was here alone. There was another deck chair next to his and a matching towel, drinks tray and sunglasses. Harry had them painted into the picture.

No matter how many times he tried to tell himself that when Harry eventually joined him in the paintings, they’d be able to have some form of life together; the truth was that he was certain he’d be spending his life moving from painting to painting to avoid him.

He had several new paintings. This tropical paradise had the bleached out colours of the sun on the sand, along with the stunning deep blue of tropical waters. Once more Draco wished he could smell the ocean. It had its own unique smell. When Draco was a child, his parents had taken him away during the summer and sometimes he’d go to sleep in his own bed in the Manor and wake in a strange bed. But before he even opened his eyes he’d know they were at the beach, just by the smell of the air.

The painting Harry had commissioned a few years ago and given him on the day they finally admitted to each other that what they felt was more than some odd flirtation, was a street scene in a town called Barga in Tuscany, Italy. Draco adored walking the streets of the town. The way that some of them were only wide enough for three people to walk abreast at once, the way that the higher levels of the houses seemed to reach out towards the ones across the narrow streets, and the way that the boxes of brightly coloured flowers decorated the balconies. It reminded him of walking streets just like these in Italy, though he’d never been to Barga. Memories of sun-wrinkled old men, their toothless smiles making his child’s eyes widen, and the old ladies hanging washing expertly from lines between the building’s upper floors, made him smile. The days he felt like walking, Barga was where he headed. One of the added attractions of the town was a traditional café with a tiny table sitting out the front in the sun and set with two cups of coffee and two pastries. He tended to try and avoid the cafe, though. It made him feel lonely.

There seemed to be a theme running through the paintings Harry gave him these days. Last Valentine’s Day he’d given Draco a painting of a grassy hillside, a stream running though the base of the hill and wild flowers blooming madly all over the place. There was a picnic set for two on a flat area near the top of the hill. Two plates, two glasses, and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket. Platters of chicken and salad, quiche, fruit, pate and desserts all adorned the blanket.

Draco had yet to spend too much time in this one at all, though he did love the cool trickle of the stream and the vivid flush of the wildflowers.

There was also the mountain painting. The scene was a snow-covered mountainside that looked perfect for skiing. Indeed, there was a manually operated pulley system to get him to the top of the hill if he wanted. Draco also found equipment and clothing for two in the hut at the base. The hut boasted a roaring open fire with comfy armchairs and a thick bearskin rug stretched in front of it. There were two mugs of hot chocolate and two steaming bowls of a hearty stew.

It had made Draco want to cry just looking at it.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt compelled to tell Harry the truth. Perhaps then he’d stop feeling so guilty every time he saw Harry had added perfect treats made for two to each painting. It would probably also be the last time Harry saw him as a friend, with a view to something more later. But it needed to be said; there needed to be no secrets between them.

A voice saying hello made Draco jump slightly as it wasn’t Harry’s, yet he hadn’t heard anyone enter the Ballroom.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Scorpius said. “I thought the door made enough noise when I came in.”

“No, you’re fine, I was miles away thinking,” Draco replied. “I don’t often see you in here.”

“No, I don’t often have the time to come and visit you. What with the children and work and Al’s family, they tend to eat up most of my time. I’m sorry, I should come in here and keep you company more often.”

“Oh, I wasn’t complaining,” Draco said, waving his excuses aside. “I know you have lives to lead and I’m just a portrait.”

“You can stop fishing, too.” Scorpius grinned.

“Fishing?” asked Draco not comprehending.

“We both know that to this family at least you’re more than just a portrait.”

“Oh.” Well, that’s not what he’d meant to do. “I wasn’t fishing,” he said.

“But all compliments will be gratefully accepted, right?” There was a slight smirk on Scorpius’ face and at that moment he looked very much like Theo when he was a teenager. Draco sighed before smiling.

“I suppose so.” He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the deck chair. Because he had company, he pulled a t-shirt over his head. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered if it had been Harry, more than comfortable just being clothed in his shorts. “It’s nice to see you again; how is everyone?”

“Mostly we’re all well. But Harry had a heart attack a few days ago.”

Harry had a heart attack? Draco’s hand shot to his mouth, which had gone dry. He could barely think for shock. “He … is he all right?”

“He is now, but they were terribly concerned for a while there.”

“I thought he’d just gone off on an unscheduled trip, I never even thought…” Draco’s voice trailed off. He noticed his thigh trembling under his hand and he was very grateful that he was already sitting down.

“He will be home in a few days and he will need to rest a lot, so I was wondering if you’d like us to bring a day bed in here for him and he can rest all day in here.”

“I’d love that,” Draco said, smiling, though he was still trying to stop himself shaking. That would at least give him some kind of feeling like he was helping to look after Harry. Contributing somehow.

“Well, he’ll need company and none of us are home during the day.”

“Yes, he’ll probably like being in here. I’d love the company myself.”

“I’ll organise it, then.” Scorpius smiled and inclined his head.

“Thank you. How is the rest of the family coping?”

“They were all so worried, they love him so much. But he’s ready for visitors now and that means that they’re extremely relieved. Glad to have him back.”

“I can understand that. And how about your children? Harry told me that Aries was finishing Hogwarts this year and going to study with DuPere in France.”

Scorpius’ face lit up in pride. “She is. He accepted her out of about twenty that applied for the position. He sees her as the only one with the ‘inner eye’. Perhaps she’ll be a respected Seer. Of course Al and I tease her that she has fey blood which is why she is good at Divination.”

“You’ve had no luck in finding who her parents were?”

“No, they seem to have vanished along with any records. We don’t care, she’s ours now.”

“You and Al seem so good with the children.”

“We love them and it’s not hard to be good to them if you love them enough.”

Draco never thought he’d heard a truer statement. Draco’s mother had loved him enough and she was good to him but his father obviously had loved his supposed power and status more than his son and it had shown in the way he’d treated Draco.

“You’ll have to bring my namesake in for a visit soon.”

“I will. I’m told he’s almost as haughty as you when you were his age.” Scorpius smiled. He was teasing.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Poor child,” he responded dryly.

“He starts Hogwarts next year and tells me that unless he’s in Slytherin, he intends to leave and attend Durmstrang instead.”

“From the sounds of it, I don’t think he’ll have any problems being sorted into Slytherin. It must be changed since my day. There was barely a wizard who wanted to be sorted into Slytherin. Only those with Dark parents, generally. There were obviously a lot that weren’t involved with Voldemort but the House didn’t have a good name back then.”

“Things have changed. When Neville Longbottom took over the Headmaster position, he initiated changes in both the curriculum and the culture of House rivalry. That was back in my day, so things have sorted themselves out now and settled down. Students are proud of their houses but they aren’t ruled by them.”

Draco nodded. He had been aware of the changes, only had not heard of students actively wanting to be in Slytherin. He felt a sliver of pride in his old House, surviving despite all the odds. “That’s as it should be. Well, tell Draco I’d enjoy a visit with him before he goes off to Hogwarts if he has the time.”

“I’m sure he will.” Scorpius smiled and took a short stroll around the room, looking at the pictures.

“This one is new,” he said, pausing in front of the snow-covered mountain.

“Yes, he had that one delivered just after his last trip overseas.”

“He likes spoiling you, I see.” Scorpius had moved on to the picture of the picnic on the mountain.

“He does. I don’t know why he looks after me so well, but I am extremely grateful.”

“He looks after everyone he loves.” Scorpius turned and gave Draco a steady stare, thoughtful and intense. After several moments, where Draco was too intrigued by the thought processes he could see going through Scorpius’ head to say anything, Scorpius smiled and nodded as though he’d realised something he should have known all along.

“He loves you, doesn’t he?”

Draco was unsure about how to proceed, he thought Harry loved him, but they’d never actually said the words to each other, the boundaries of their relationship being too high to overcome. “I think so,” he said after several seconds, deciding to tell the truth.

“It’s very obvious, you know. As long as I ignore the fact that you’re a portrait, it’s as clear as the nose on my face.”

“Ah, but I am a portrait.”

Scorpius shook his head. “No, much more than that. We’ve already established that. What I didn’t realise was how much more than a portrait you are to him. No wonder he didn’t say anything to anyone, they’d think him mad.”

“And you don’t?”

“It’s unusual to say the least but, in my profession, you see some very strange things and I’d be the last person to try and take love away from anyone, let alone someone like Harry who has so much love to give and therefore deserves some of his own.”

“Would you mind not telling anyone?”

“Not even Al? I’m not sure I can keep it from him; he’s my husband and I love him.”

Draco sighed. “All right, as long as he doesn’t tell Lily. Don’t mention this to Harry, but she threatened to burn all the paintings in this room, me included, back when she lived in the Manor.”

“She what?”

“I think she was hurting over that cheating scum she married and she lashed out at something that couldn’t fight back. At least Harry said she was lashing out at him, too, so why would I be any different?”

“Well, she’s moved on since then.”

“But she still might not understand this.”

“You’re right. All right, then I won’t tell her. Nor will I tell Harry what she threatened.”

“Thank you. I’d rather just not create any more problems.”

“I understand. Well I should go. I have your namesake begging me to take him to see his grandfather.”

“All right. Please give Harry my love and tell him to hurry up and come home.” To me he added under his breath.

Scorpius assured him he would and then left.

Draco buried his face in his hands and let the shock wash over him. It firmed up his decision to tell Harry as soon as he was well enough to hear it. What would have happened had Harry died before Draco had the chance to tell him the truth? 
 

15

2053


There were times when Draco wondered if his sanity were quite intact.

After Scorpius had informed him of Harry’s heart attack, Draco had made a beeline for the dungeon, the inexplicable urge to be with Harry, in whatever form, suddenly urgent and insistent.

He’d stood in the doorway just staring at the lifeless form for hours, trying, and probably not succeeding terribly well, not to imagine that this would be how Harry looked should he be really dead. Lifeless.

But he knew that this was only a rendering of Harry, accurate as much as possible, but it wasn’t his actual flesh and bones, so this form was a different form of his Harry. He wanted to be with his Harry more than anything, and this was as close as he was going to get. Especially after Harry knew the truth of why he was there.

He’d been reluctant to leave Harry all alone in the dungeon while the live Harry had been in the hospital recovering from his heart attack. He couldn’t keep him company there, but he could do it here. It had felt like he was doing the right thing, even if it was only in his head.

So, he’d moved closer to the robe covered body hanging from the chains, wishing for the millionth time that he was able to move Harry. Even to lay him on the floor – he could have placed a mattress on the floor and soft warm covers and at least made him comfortable.

He’d been prepared for the warm but dead, lifeless feel to Harry’s skin, but not for the softness of Harry’s hair. He’d whimpered when his fingers slid through it, the silky strands pleasurable against his skin. “Oh, Harry,” he said, sighing.

Since then, he’d allowed himself the wonder of experiencing that gentle delight whenever he could. It had become almost a ritual. He thought Harry’s hair might learn to stay in one place just because he’d run his hands through it so often.

In attempting to avoid thinking about Harry naked under the robes, he only really succeeded in thinking about it more. But he refused to remove the robe; if he did and was face to face with the soft penis he’d played with decades ago, he’d associate this innocent hair stroking with the depraved game he’d played sucking Harry’s cock. He’d rather not think about what his mind was like back then; he’d come such a long way.

And now, even though the live Harry was out of the hospital and spending his days in the Ballroom with Draco, of an evening Harry joined his family for dinner and at night he slept in his own bed, so Draco found his only comfort and solace with the Harry in the dungeon.

It surely wasn’t sane to be doing this, to want Harry so much he’d sit by an unanimated, lifeless image of him. There could be decades stretching in front of him where he had this to look forward to, only it wasn’t the good anticipatory looking forward to sort, it was the resigned all he’d ever have sort. And that was assuming Draco never confessed the truth. If he did, then he wouldn’t even have those decades.

He was lucky that Harry hadn’t caught him yet. He didn’t fancy trying to explain everything.

Although the time was coming when Harry would be strong enough again to hear it. It made Draco squirm in worry and anxiety, and he tried to think of every possible way out of it. There were several ways out, but in the end, it was the one tiny glint of hope he held, that maybe when he saw how contrite Draco was Harry would forgive him, that made him want to be honest. Even more, it was the respect he held for Harry now that was demanding honesty. In the times when he was petrified even thinking about life without Harry, he wondered to where all his Slytherin traits had disappeared.

Two weeks after Harry arrived home from hospital, he entered the Ballroom carrying yet another painting.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to be lifting heavy things,” Draco remonstrated. He took the task of making sure Harry looked after himself very seriously indeed.

“Just because you can’t use magic, doesn’t mean that I can’t,” Harry replied, grinning. “Lightening Charm.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “All right. What do you have there?”

“New painting. Remember I said that I’d loved the ballroom when I went to London for the Midsummer ball?”

Draco nodded eagerly.

“Well, I liked it so much that I thought you should have a place to dance in, too. You live in a ballroom, but made no provision for yourself to dance. You have music and now you have a room.”

Harry walked to a spare section of the ballroom wall, on the opposite side to the snow-covered mountain, and hung the picture up. Draco made his way around to it, stepping into an ornate ballroom, similar to the one the painting hung in: polished floors, high windows, large chandeliers and a place for a band in the corner. But instead of the band, there was a grand piano standing majestically waiting for someone to come and play it.

“Harry, it’s beautiful,” Draco whispered. “I can’t play the piano though.”

“I know,” Harry replied. “But I thought maybe you could teach yourself. If you wanted to.”

“I have the time, don’t I?” he said, smiling at Harry, loving seeing him so pleased that Draco enjoyed the gift.

“You do. If you want, there’s a new interactive piano lessons course available. I just have to subscribe you to it and then set up the two-way receiver so the instructor can hear you and pass on directions.”

“Thank you.” Draco was sincere. When he’d taught himself the harp it had been through necessity, but it had been very difficult as he’d never played an instrument before and there had been no one to tell him how he was progressing; he’d had to use his own ear.

“There is also something special hanging in the corner.”

Draco looked to where Harry was indicating and saw two formal sets of robes hanging up. “You had robes painted in?”

“I did.” Harry smiled. “I thought you might appreciate new formal robes. They’re not from your normal tailor, obviously, but they’re good quality all the same.”

“They’d want to be,” Draco replied haughtily, though a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing but the best for you,” Harry said seriously. “I wanted to give you a special place where we could dance to beautiful music. There’s another painting just outside that will make any evening spent there perfect.”

Draco smiled slowly. “I never knew you were such a romantic, Harry.” He had really; he’d been noticing these special things in the earlier paintings before Harry started pointing them out to him. He’d always thought them sweet and romantic and they always broke his heart.

Harry grinned. “I had a scare recently and it’s made me want to make sure people I care about know it. If that makes me look like a sentimental old fool then so be it.”

If Harry didn’t want to mention the earlier little romantic gestures, then Draco wouldn’t bring them up. Not right now. He’d keep them for teasing at some later, more appropriate, time. “Harry,” Draco said. “I keep telling you, you’re not old.”

Harry waved a hand at him. “Oh, go on, I know I am getting long in the tooth, but I don’t want to let things with you just drift. I want you waiting for me.”

“You know I would wait forever.”

“Not like you have a choice, is it?”

“I could have asked you to get rid of me.”

Harry didn’t answer that, but tightened his lips and then turned and left the room, returning seconds later with a second painting, which he hung very close to the one of the ballroom.

It made Draco’s breath catch. The scene was a balcony overlooking a moonlit lake. The night was shaded in hues of deep purple and darkest blue, highlighted by stars of light, the gentle illumination of the moon and the reflections on the water. It was so still and quiet and when he walked through and onto the balcony he thought his heart might be so full it would burst.

Very soon now he absolutely must tell Harry; admit the awful heinous crime he’d planned and stop all this torment and guilt, one way or the other.

“It’s so beautiful, Harry. Just the sort of place I’d imagined being proposed to.”

“Maybe I can do that, too,” Harry replied softly, moving close to the painting. Draco turned and found himself face to face with Harry.

“You could do that,” he whispered. “We’d never be able to get married though.”

“No, but it would mean the world to me if you’d say yes when I asked. That would be all I need. To know that you would if you could.”

Draco’s hand lifted to reach for Harry, despite knowing that he couldn’t touch, despite feeling his heart breaking because he knew that Harry would never ask.

“I promise that when you ask, I will say yes.”

He could feel the pain burning his throat, making it ache, and his voice became lost in the agony. Harry’s head leaned towards Draco’s hand, making it a parody of a caress.

“A part of me wished I had died when I had the heart attack,” Harry whispered, lost.

Draco pulled back sharply. “Don’t you ever say that! How could you do that to your family? Harry, that is…you can’t simply wish your life away! You owe them more than that.”

He was angry that Harry wanted to die. Didn’t he realise that dead was dead? And no matter how comfortable it was living here in the paintings, it was not life. Draco was used to it; he’d been here forty-five years after all; he’d had time to get accustomed to all the differences, but it had been hard and depressing and…fuck it, Draco knew that he was also angry that he’d not had the guts to confess yet. Again he thanked Merlin that Harry hadn’t died with the heart attack.

“And what about what I owe to myself and to you, Draco? I want to be with you, why should that be secondary to anything else?”

“Because…because I’m a portrait, Harry, and this is so much different than being alive. I will always be here, always. But if you died then I’d not get the chance to spend this time knowing the real, live you.”

“Are you saying that you might not love the portrait version of me?” Harry frowned and looked hurt. When he frowned like that his face aged ten years, Draco thought.

“No, Harry, no.” Draco sighed. “I want you to live, that’s all. Live as long as you can. My life was cut short and I didn’t get to experience growing older, having a family and watching them grow up and have their own family. You deserve all that.”

Harry sighed, too. “All right. Look, I’m not saying I wanted to die, but afterwards, when I came round, there was a moment when I realised that if I had died, then I’d be with you and it hurt a little that my chance had been lost. I truly love you and want to be with you. It kills me that I can’t touch you as I’d like.”

Merlin, Harry, Draco breathed to himself. “I’m not good enough for you. If you knew…” Draco stopped, horrified.

“Knew what?” Harry asked.

“Nothing, just forget it.”

“Draco, tell me!” Harry insisted.

“No, when you’re stronger. When Hermione gives you the all-clear to go back to work, ask me again.”

“She did that today, so come on, tell me.”

Draco looked at him, pleading, frightened. At Harry’s refusal to back down, he slumped and made his way back to the lounge, attempting to delay the inevitable, but also trying to plan exactly what to say.

Harry followed and sat himself down on the day bed.

Draco took a deep breath as he looked at Harry hoping to see that his expression would indicate it was all right to change the subject, but alas, Harry was as intent as he had been a few moments go.

“You remember when you asked me why there was a painting of you chained up in the dungeon?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, you told me it was just a bit of fun.”

“Well, I might have left a few things out.”

“Like what?”

“You have to remember that at the time I hated you with a passion. Really hated you. I blamed you for everything that had gone wrong in my life, hated that you hadn’t done enough to get me out of the house arrest, hated you even more that my mother was in Azkaban even after she saved your life.”

“There wasn’t a lot more I could do, you know. I was grieving loved ones, too. Just like everyone else after the war.”

“I know that now, but I was an arrogant shit who hated you anyway, remember? Especially seeing it seemed to be so easy for you to humiliate me. You always seemed to know just where to be and what to do at my worst possible moments to make me look even worse. So, the portrait of you in chains in the dungeon was revenge. You were there to be the recipient of whatever sort of torture I could bring myself to inflict upon you. I bribed the artist to ensure he used the right spells and paints so that you will only wake in this portrait and not in any others of you. Ever. You will be confined to the Ballroom.”

Draco’s throat was going dry, so he stopped and cleared it, ready to keep going, but Harry spoke instead.

“I sort of had that in my head when I first saw it. At that stage I knew exactly how you felt about me, so that’s about what I expected. Apart from being confined to the Ballroom, though. You really did hate me and planned on never letting me go?”

Draco nodded.

“But I can see how you’ve changed your mind on that. I’ve seen how solicitous you are of my body in that painting. And, as of a few years ago, the only thing I want is to be with you and you’re confined to the Ballroom, too, so it doesn’t matter. I forgive you.”

Frowning, Draco looked down at his hands. That part he’d been able to see where Harry might have been able to forgive him, but not the rest of it.

“Thank you, but that’s not all.” Now the time had come, Draco could hardly form his mouth around the words. “I actually had a plan to kill you.” There it was out. He didn’t dare look at Harry for fear he would see hatred in his eyes and taking over his face.

“What?” There was no anger there, yet, mainly disbelief. Draco looked up and had it confirmed. That wasn’t going to last long and he dropped his eyes again and continued.

“A few years into my house arrest, I developed an untraceable poison. Even the best scientists would not have been able to detect it. I planned to invite you over to speak about Teddy and then poison the both of us, so I could take out my revenge on you in perpetuity. It was only that I needed to pay one more trip to Paris to show Teddy the Luxembourg gardens and also see my tailor that made me put it off until my house arrest was over.”

Draco didn’t bother to apologise – this was way beyond an apology. It would be pointless even trying.

Harry didn’t say a word and Draco felt the tension of the silence singing loudly in his ears. Shame and remorse beat at him from the inside and made their way out through tears sliding down his face, though he could not say he was crying. He sat there, miserable for the longest time in the silence, terrified of making a noise or moving.

After an eternity, he heard Harry leave, slamming the huge doors behind him. 
 

16

2065

February

If there was one thing that Draco was grateful for ‘living’ in these portraits, it was that there was no sense of smell. He could wallow in his own excrement and he wouldn’t be able to smell it.

In fact, he’d been almost doing that for roughly twelve years. Twelve long years he’d marked off in minutes. Twelve long years he’d been alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Even if he had been able to smell himself he wouldn’t have cared. Even if the whole Ballroom reeked of him, threatening to knock everyone out with the stench, it wouldn’t have mattered much.

No one had been in to see him in twelve years.

He couldn’t say for sure why that was, but seeing as Harry hadn’t been in and the last time he’d seen him, Draco had just confessed to having had a plan to kill him and torture him for the rest of eternity, he could make a pretty accurate guess.

He’d known, of course, that this would happen. He told himself that every day in between counting the minutes. It didn’t make it any easier to bear though. It just made him not want to leave his bed.

The mere thought of visiting any of the paintings Harry had given him threatened to overwhelm him and filled him with a pain so sharp he was sure he bled.

The one exception he made was the ballroom where the piano was. In the aftermath of the confession he hadn’t thought of the piano, and later, several years later, when he did, he knew that the lessons were not going to be forthcoming.

But some inner calling made him want to learn. Made him want to attempt something really hard and difficult which was going to take so long to achieve that it might restore his faith in himself as a worthwhile…not human, he wasn’t really human, was he…entity, maybe? Whatever it was, he’d taken years to get to the stage where he could play a song and have it be recognisable as something worth listening to.

Sometimes he wondered what they all thought of the mournful tunes coming from the room. Mostly he didn’t care that they could probably all tell he was depressed. He tried not to think about it. In fact he tried not to think about anything when he wasn’t playing the piano. It was bad enough thinking when he was running his fingers over the keys, when his whole mind was filled with thoughts of Harry that ate through his stupor and left him more alone than ever.

When it became too much for him he’d burrow down in his bed and fight to not think of Harry, or anything else, until he fell asleep, exhausted from the battle.

The day Kitty had woken was one of the worst days he’d had since ‘the event’. She followed him around now, meowing piteously when he forgot to feed her, though she needed food about as much as Draco did.

Draco did have to admit that she was a cute little thing. She was fluffy and sweet but nevertheless a devastatingly harsh reminder of the bond he’d shared with Harry and so he found he could not love her. Even after two years.

The one thing Draco did like about Kitty was that she sat on his piano when he played. He thought she liked keeping him company, though he had no idea why; he wasn’t good company for anyone. Perhaps that was why; cats seemed to like you the more you ignore them. Perhaps she just liked feeling the vibrations from when he played, because she often set to purring in accompaniment.

“She likes the music,” came a voice Draco had never heard before. He jumped, startled, and turned to see who the owner was, wondering if he’d been speaking aloud.

The blond hair gave an indication of his identity, but seeing as Draco hadn’t seen this young man since he was a child, he wasn’t completely certain.

“And you are?” Draco’s voice was rusty from the lack of use and it probably came out ruder than he expected, but then he hadn’t spoken to anyone in the last twelve years. There was the possibility that Harry had sold the manor and this was the new owner. Or something. He had the air of belonging to this place.

“I’m not surprised you don’t recognise me, it’s been years since I was in here.” The young man was smiling tightly.

“I apologise. I thought I recognised you, but it’s been so long, I wasn’t sure. Draco, isn’t it?” Draco realised that if the young Draco was able to enter the Ballroom then Harry must have altered the wards. For a moment his heart skipped frantically in his chest. Lily could have come in at any time and burnt every single one of his paintings. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if she had, he thought momentarily before turning his attention back to Draco.

Young Draco nodded. “It is.”

Draco wanted to ask so many questions about what was happening outside the ballroom, how Harry was, if he’d taken care of his health. He wanted to ask if Harry missed him at all. But it wasn’t fair to do any of that, no matter how much he wanted to. So he asked a simple question instead. “How are you?”

“There is no need to make polite conversation. I will finish what I came in here for and then leave. You do not need to accompany me.”

Draco blinked. Was he being dismissed? In his own Ballroom? “Excuse me?”

“You have several rather important works on your walls and I have come to inspect them. I am an artist you see and my father is organising an exhibition for my works. He is thinking of adding effect by including some of these paintings.” He spied the picture of the picnic on the hillside and grimaced, muttering snidely, “Pretentiously romantic.”

Draco frowned thinking that young Draco had no right to call something as beautiful as the picnic painting, pretentious. He loved that one. He loved all his paintings. Even though he had no use for most of them anymore, they still meant something to him. The thought of losing them… “Did Harry say you could remove them?”

“My grandfather barely says anything anymore. Father and Dad run the household now and make the decisions.”

“Is he unwell?” Draco asked, worried that some illness may have robbed him of his speech.

“No, since he stopped coming in here all the time, he just speaks less and less. No illness. Just age I suspect.”

Guilt hit Draco like a hammer to the chest. He’d known he’d really hurt Harry, but he thought that Harry would have moved on, found someone real to love. This closing in on himself and becoming insular was unlike him. Unless he had really loved Draco. Dropping his head down into his hands, Draco felt swamped by the flood of emotions trying to claim him.

Kitty rubbed her nose against Draco’s hair, making little distressed noises as if she knew Draco was upset. Draco looked up and picked her up, giving in to her demands for attention this once. Immediately the little fluff ball begun to purr and snuggle into his arms.

Young Draco began to walk around the room, inspecting the paintings, making the occasional comment on an aspect or a colour shift.

Draco was too caught up in his own emotions to think much about the young man and just let him go on his way. He did register that they’d been right about him though, he was arrogant and haughty. He wondered if the killer smile was still there.

“No wonder Grandfather doesn’t come in here anymore, you look a mess.”

He’d momentarily forgotten the presence of the young man while he’d been reminiscing and worrying about Harry. Now he looked up in response to the rude statement – it was rude no matter how true it was – to see the young man gracing him with a smile that seemed to light him up from inside. So there it was. Still there after all.

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but found himself smiling with him, instead.

“Personally, I think Grandfather should just get over whatever it was that stopped him coming to see you; he’s been a basket case ever since. He even let his ex-wife live in one of the groundskeepers' cottages on the estate until she found another rich old man to look after her and took off for Spain.”

Draco smirked. So Ginny Potter was still acting the whore. Nice to see that his assessment of her character had been correct.

Still, being right didn’t make Draco feel any better about Harry’s state of mind.

“I would love to see him again,” he said, hoping not to sound too desperate.

“You’re both as bad as each other. You look like you haven’t bathed once in all those years and Grandfather has cut himself off from anyone who isn’t family.”

“Will you…” Draco stopped. He had no right to ask young Draco to beg Harry to come and see him.

‘I don’t think he will give in now. He’s very stubborn in case you didn’t realise.”

“I know.” Draco gave a small smile.

“I tell you what, I’ll speak to him if you bathe and take care of yourself again.”

Hope? Was that some small lantern of hope glowing off in the distance?

“You’ll ask him to come and see me?” There was no squeaking in his voice, there wasn’t. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re both miserable without each other. Most everyone thinks he’s just outgrown the fad but seeing you like this, it’s obvious you’re both grieving.”

“After twelve years?”

Young Draco shrugged. “Maybe if you’d been on different continents he could have moved on but you were always in the same house, how could he forget you?”

“And I suspect because it was my house and you have my name that’s making it harder. Who knew I’d be grateful that someone had the same name as me? I always thought I was unique, an individual.”

“Oh, you’re that, I am sure,” young Draco replied, giving Draco that smile again that made him feel all warm inside. This young man was definitely a charmer, no matter how arrogant.

“And what of the paintings?”

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll use any; they might be masterpieces but they don’t suit the tone I want for the show, they’re too bucolic.”

What a relief. Draco would take his bucolic, pastoral scenes over anything else, masterpieces or not, merely because Harry had given them to him.

He almost couldn’t wait for Draco to leave. He had a bath to take.

.o0o.



May

“Teddy, it’s good to see you again. It must be twenty years since we saw you last.” Scorpius’ hand was out, ready for Teddy to shake.

“Scorpius. Good to see you, too, although I’d wish it was under better circumstances.”

“True. Come in. They all can’t wait to see you again.” And perhaps you can do something with Harry, he added to himself.

“How is everyone really? Letters just don’t seem to tell the full story, do they?”

“Well, we’re all pretty shocked. None of us expected anything like this.”

“No, I don’t think anyone ever really expects death, do they. Even after a long illness, there is still such grief.”

Scorpius nodded, remembering that Teddy had dealt with more than enough death in his life. “Did Victoire come with you?”

“She did, but she is staying with Ron. I needed to be here.”

“We’re expecting everyone to come back here after the service. With so many relatives and people who wanted to say good-bye, this is about the only place that will hold them all.”

“Sounds about right. I never saw the day when Potters and Weasleys would own Malfoy Manor.”

“Well there are a lot of Malfoys living here, too. You know that Al and I adopted the name.”

"True. But Al was born a Potter and his mother was a Weasley. Just never seemed possible when I was a child. They hated each other.”

Scorpius led Teddy through to the lounge where several other family members had gathered. “That all seems so pointless now, doesn’t it?”

“It does. I sometimes wish I’d never agreed to sell the Manor to Harry.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, look at what happened to him. That wouldn’t have been the case had I not sold him the Manor.”

“You can’t tell that,” Scorpius replied, shocked. But before he could expand on that Teddy was engulfed in family all hugging him and excited to see him, despite the sad occasion. There would be time enough to speak to Teddy later, he thought and gave himself over to the family. Al came to him and slipped his arm around his waist and he leaned in gratefully.

Later at the service, which was attended by more people than Scorpius had seen in the one place in several years, he watched his family saying goodbye to a well-loved member. It was sad and it was a stupid way of dying, he thought. But then, Hermione always had been one for pushing the boundaries of wizard medicine.

Harry had even come out of his self-imposed silence to say something about Hermione and her life. It was moving and heartfelt, but he saw Ron grimace and turn away when Harry moved from the lectern to give him his condolences.

This breakdown in their friendship was almost as hard for Harry to take as Hermione’s death. Al had tried to speak with his Uncle Ron about it yesterday before the funeral but, as he’d whispered to Scorpius while they were snuggled up for the night, Ron blamed Harry for losing him his family.

According to Al, Ron thought that Harry was responsible for Hugo’s death, for Rose’s subsequent pledging herself to medicine and by association spinsterhood thereby squashing any chance of grandchildren and now Hermione’s death. Though why that was Harry’s fault, Scorpius didn’t know.

That wasn’t quite true. Hermione had been working on a permanent cure for alcoholism for James’ eldest Timothy. Somehow a potion had overheated and exploded in Hermione’s face, killing her instantly. It had something to do with the reaction of the different ingredients to the make-up she wore. A stupid accident, but Hermione was dead all the same and Ron was blaming Harry. He also blamed Harry for the fact that Ginny was like she was. Scorpius didn’t really know his mother-in-law that well, they’d been well and truly divorced by the time he’d married Al. But he couldn’t see why that was Harry’s fault, either.

Seeing Harry’s pain now, he wished that he still spoke to Draco. Harry would never think to confide in any of his children and now his closest friends were lost to him, too. Draco would have been the perfect choice to help Harry through his grief. Maybe Teddy could help. Scorpius resolved to approach him later.


.o0o.


The house-elves had done the family proud with a massive but tasteful spread set out in the gardens of the Manor. Seeing that it had dawned a cool but sunny day, Scorpius decided that the fresh air would be a less constricting atmosphere than inside.

More than three hundred people milled, speaking quietly about Hermione and retelling stories of how she had cured this one of spattergroit, or mended this one’s broken arm or leg, or assisted in an emergency. Without fail, every single person only had good things to say about Hermione Weasley.

Scorpius looked around at the gathering, pleased that every detail had been anticipated and the event was flowing smoothly. He spied Harry sitting in a corner with one of Lily’s grandchildren asleep on his lap. He looked tired and grey, fraught with pain and grief and Scorpius was hesitant to approach him.

But he did anyway, sitting himself in a chair to Harry’s right.

“Papa. How are you?”

“I’m doing fine, Scorpius. You don’t need to baby-sit me.”

“Oh, I’m not. I’m resting. It takes a lot to organise these things, you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

Scorpius sighed. This abruptness has been growing worse over the years he’d stopped seeing Draco. He didn’t speak much at all anymore and it seemed that when he did it was short and detached.

“You’ve not been well for years, Harry,” he said reverting to Harry’s name.

“I don’t need you to tell me what I am or am not.”

The baby stirred in Harry’s lap and Harry expertly rocked her slightly until she settled back down to sleep.

“You need someone.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Al told me Ron blames you for losing Hugo and Hermione.”

“Al should have kept his mouth shut,” Harry spat.

“If you want to talk about it, then I’m here, you should know that.”

Harry shifted, looking uncomfortable. Either that or he was about to flee. “Why does everyone assume I need someone to talk to? I am not a woman blubbering over things like an emotional wreck. I’m doing very well on my own, thank you.”

It was perhaps the longest speech Harry had made in a decade and it convinced Scorpius that Harry needed to speak to someone, if not him.

“Why don’t you go and see Draco?”

Scorpius saw Harry’s lips tighten hard enough for them to become white lines. Then they disappeared. “He’s gone in to grab his paints. Said something about wanting to catch the garden in this light.”

“That’s not the Draco I was referring to and you know it,” Scorpius replied patiently.

“I know of no other Draco that I’d care to speak with.”

“Now I know where Al gets his stubbornness from. You. It’s been twelve years. Isn’t that enough time to punish both of you for whatever happened?”

“You have no idea of what happened. Stay out of my business, Scorpius.” Harry virtually hissed the last as he stood and left, carrying the baby with him.


.o0o.



“Draco?”

Draco looked up, not having heard that voice in such a long time.

“Teddy!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” For a moment he thought that maybe something had happened to Harry and that had brought him back from America. But then he thought that perhaps if anything had happened to Harry he’d know by now. The portrait would have woken.

“Had to come back for Hermione’s funeral and I thought I’d stop in and see you.”

“Hermione died?” Draco was truly shocked at how much that hurt. Hermione was a contemporary and while he’d hated her at school, he’d been immensely grateful that she’d helped Harry when he had his heart attack.

“A mishap with a new potion,” Teddy replied, nodding. “These are all new since I was here last.”

“Harry used to buy them for me,” Draco said, sadly.

“I know he doesn’t come and see you anymore.”

“Is he all right? Hermione was such a close friend.”

“He’s not doing that well, actually, which is another reason I’ve come to see you.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Draco asked anxiously, moving to the front of the portrait.

“He’s not the Harry I remember, Draco.”

“Well, he’s older, he just lost his best friend…”

“I think he lost his best friend years ago when he stopped talking to you,” Teddy cut in.

“But that was years ago and he has Ron anyway. He was always Harry’s best friend.”

“Did you know that Ron blames Harry for Hugo’s death?”

Draco shook his head. “I knew Harry felt guilty over it, but not that Ron blamed him.”

“Well he did, does. Also for Hermione’s death.”

“Why on earth would that be Harry’s fault?”

“The way Ron sees it, Hermione was working on a cure for Timothy’s alcoholism and the potion went wrong and she died and if Harry had been a better father, then so would James and then Timothy wouldn’t have been a drunk. He’s looking for someone to blame it on, that’s all.”

“Then why not Timothy?”

“Because Timothy can’t fight back. I think Ron is looking for a fight.”

“Oh, that would be right. Those Weasleys always did tend to go for the physical violence before using their brains.” Draco sneered.

“Yes, well I can’t see how any of it is Harry’s fault, but for whatever reason, Ron thinks it is and until he gets past that Harry has none of his friends now and he doesn’t confide in his children.”

“I see. But why tell me, I haven’t even seen Harry for twelve years.”

“I thought if you would tell me why you and Harry fell out, I could try and talk him around. I am a solicitor, so I have good arguing skills.” He gave a small smile.

Draco was torn. The sensible thing told him to tell Teddy and, hopefully, he wouldn’t hate him like Harry did and, maybe, he would get Harry to come and see him again. The scared child wanted to run and hide at the thought of ever admitting his mistakes to anyone again. Not ones of that magnitude.

“Do you think Harry needs me that much?”

“He’s not been the same since he stopped coming to see you, apparently.”

Draco nodded. “Young Draco came in a few months ago and told me he’d try to get Harry to come and speak to me too but he never came, so I am not sure what good you think you can do.”

After young Draco had left, Draco had bathed and dressed and eaten and cleaned up as best he could and he continued to do that for days and then weeks. He waited for Harry, always prepared and always bathed and looking his best.

But Harry never came. And to be honest Draco hadn’t thought he would, but he carried on being prepared because strangely enough it had made him feel better to be caring for himself again.

“I can try. I want to see the smile back on his face. I have some idea of what the two of you meant to each other after all.”

“How do you mean?”

“I knew there was something different, special about your relationship right from the start when he found you in here. It wasn’t until he wanted to buy the Manor from me that I knew what it was.”

“What was that?”

“Love. The two of you were in love with each other. So whatever it was that stopped that must have been extraordinarily traumatic. If I know what it was, then I have a chance of changing his mind. I’ll know my battle field.”

With those words, Draco knew he was going to blab the whole thing to Teddy and to trust that it would work. What choice did he have anyway? More months and years of loneliness? Or a chance that something Teddy might say would work?

17 

2065


Harry had lost count of just how many times in the last twelve years, five months, and seventeen days he’d stood in front of these doors willing himself to open them and take the first step to reuniting with Draco. He’d studied the intricate designs on the wood countless times trying to convince the brave Gryffindor in him to reach out and open them. He knew every curl and dip in every design; knew exactly where each pattern began to repeat itself. He could draw the doors in his sleep.

Every time he’d run away, courage failing him at the last moment. Being a coward had never been part of his make up and he found it hard to understand why it was that he couldn’t find the courage to just open the door. At times his fingers had even reached out to touch the handle, always withdrawing before touching the cool metal.

There had been days when he’d had the Manor to himself, that he’d lifted the silencing wards around the Ballroom so he could sit on the floor outside the doors all day and listen to Draco’s attempts to learn piano. At those times the need to rip open the door and just see him made him ache.

But stubbornly he’d refused himself the pleasure. The hurt ran too deep. He’d raise the silencing wards once more because he couldn’t stand the looks the rest of the family gave him when they heard Draco playing, and return to a life where he was rapidly excluding anyone that wasn’t family.

The more hurt and bitter he felt, the less tolerance and patience he had for anyone else and, so as not to hurt their feelings, he spoke less, socialised less, the consequences being the less they spoke to him in return. It was a ripple effect and it had worked very effectively.

He’d felt some anger and betrayal that his marriage had fallen apart as there had been real love there at one point. But that hadn’t hurt anywhere near as badly as Draco’s betrayal. To think someone he’d loved so deeply had planned on killing him, taking away his life, taking him away from his family.

For a long time he hadn’t been able to see past that. And then, by the time he did…it seemed too late to do anything about it. The longer it went on, the harder it became to take that first step and the more bitter and angry he became, only it was directed at himself as much as it was at Draco.

Warring inside him was a man in two minds. One that wanted to go in there and confront Draco, scream and rage, threaten to burn all the portraits. The other one wanted to have Draco in his lap holding on to him like he’d die if he let go and wanted to love him again like he had before.

But the pain got in the way every time and he walked away.

Many of his family members had tried to make Harry return to seeing Draco. He hadn’t listened. Not because he didn’t want to return, but because he was afraid of what he might say or do if he did. Fear of the unknown. It made him feel like a coward; he’d never been afraid of the unknown before.

Teddy was the only one who’d managed to get through to him. And he’d not said anything other than, “It’s time, Harry. Do it now before you regret it. What happens if you die before you reconcile?”

At the time, Harry had thought that would be the easy way to go. He’d be dead and he wouldn’t have to take that first step; it would be done for him. Teddy, clever bastard, must have read the thoughts on his face, because he added, “Draco might hate you as much as you profess to hate him, now. If he does and you die, what’s to stop him carrying out his planned revenge after all? Nothing will stop you waking in that portrait when you die, now, nothing can change that. How you two deal with it and each other after that will depend on what you do now. If you love him - and if you’re still grieving it seems you do - reconcile now before it’s too late.”

Harry had stood there with his mouth open. Had Draco told him all about it then? What did that mean? Did it mean that Draco missed him as much as he missed Draco? Or did that mean that Draco was gloating in there that he’d had this master revenge plan and now that they both hated each other again he’d be able to carry it out?

Imagining being tortured for eternity by someone he hated was only overshadowed by the thought of being tortured for eternity by someone he loved.

And he did love Draco. Falling in love with a portrait was odd and unheard of, but Harry’s whole life had been replete with doing things that were previously unheard of, so why should falling in love be any different?

Standing in front of the door wasn’t going to get this done, he told himself. It wasn’t going to get any easier and for sure no one else could do it for him. He took a deep breath and this time when he reached out to grab the door handle, he touched the cool metal surprised that he’d managed to break past his own fear this time.

As he turned the handle and pushed open the doors a sense of calm washed over him. Finally, after all these years, he would be able to set eyes on Draco once more. The one he loved, the one who had crushed him with his confession about planning to kill him. He’d done it, taken that first step and now that the whole process had been set in motion, there was no hesitating from hereon in.

Harry almost laughed at the shock on Draco’s face as he walked in. He looked just as Harry remembered, beautiful, young and gorgeous and blond and…he sighed…beautiful. The beauty hid a treacherous heart, though, Harry reminded himself.

Draco’s spoon clattered to the table top, clanking as it hit the plate. “Harry?”

Harry rolled his eyes, biting his lip to stop from smiling. “Have I changed that much?”

“No! No, it’s just…Merlin…it’s been so long, I didn’t expect to ever see you again.”

“I didn’t expect to ever come back,” Harry admitted, frowning.

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m not sure of what I want to say, either.” And he wasn’t. At least he had no idea of how to start a conversation that would lead them to reconcile. Which he wanted. Twelve years was long enough.

“Why are you here, then?” Draco asked. He sounded wary and Harry detected the defensive position he’d rearranged himself into. He probably thought that Harry wasn’t there for anything good.

“I came to see you,” he replied. “Twelve years is long enough, Draco.”

Harry had to stop talking then, his throat was seizing up and he felt the hot pricking behind his eyes that was the onset of tears and he refused to get overly emotional. It helped having to stop; if he kept going he would blab about missing Draco and he wasn’t prepared to give that much. Yet. Draco would have to prove how trustworthy he was all over again before he’d lay himself open to that sort of pain.

“Does that mean you’ve forgiven me?” Draco asked hopefully, Harry noticing how his disposition brightened considerably.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know.” He sat down on the edge of the couch, not prepared to make himself too comfortable just yet.

Draco’s dejected slump and subsequent frown made Harry cross. What did he expect? That Harry could just forget all about the fact that Draco had planned on killing him?

“I don’t know, I just…” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I just needed to see you, again.”

Draco stood and moved as close to the front of the painting as he could, then lowered himself to his knees. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t get down on my knees for anyone, Harry, but it might show you how sincerely sorry I am that I would beg for your forgiveness. I will if you want me to.”

“You’d beg me?” Some of Harry’s crossness vanished.

Draco looked flustered. “If it would make any difference. I’d do anything you want me to just so you’d come back to me.”

It was clear that Draco was deadly serious because he was overly emotional and his voice trembled.

“Why do you want me back?”

“Are you serious?” Draco looked incredulous. “Harry, I’ve been in love with you for longer than I was alive, how can you ask me why?”

“Get up off your knees, Draco,” Harry said, relenting. “I don’t want you to beg me.”

“Are you coming back? Do you forgive me?” Draco asked, not moving.

“Please, Draco, I don’t want you to beg,” Harry insisted.

“Not until you tell me you forgive me and you’re coming back!”

“I don’t know, all right?” Harry shouted, standing and running his hands through his hair again nervously. “It’s really fucking hard to get past the fact that you planned on killing me and torturing me for the rest of eternity.”

Draco’s voice was low and quiet, though no less assertive. “That was the live version of me. This version is a totally different creature and I don’t want to kill you or torture you. I want to love you. If you’ll let me.”

Harry was still doubtful; it had hurt too fucking much to just let it go. But he did want to let Draco love him - he loved Draco, didn’t he? Despite the betrayal, he still loved Draco. But admitting it to him was something he wasn’t ready for just now.

“Harry, I am the one you fell in love with, not the live Draco. Me. Will you let him destroy what we had forever?”

Draco had a point; Harry knew it but didn’t want to admit to it. That final step of granting absolution was just too big a step no matter how much he wanted to take it. There was a long, painful silence.

“I’ll make you a compromise,” Harry finally said.

“Anything.”

It made Harry’s heart clench to see how eager Draco was for any way back into Harry’s heart.

“I’ll keep coming to see you and we’ll talk. Like we did when we were getting to know each other. Then we’ll see what happens.”

“Done.” Draco rose from his knees and smiled, clearly relieved and happy as he sat back down on his chair.

A little ball of white fluff decided to make its presence known then and climbed into Draco’s lap, kneading its paws for a few moments before settling down and curling up in a ball.

Draco absently stroked its fur, still smiling.

“I see the kitten woke up,” Harry said.

“Oh. Yes.” Draco grinned and looked down at her. “I called her Kitty, because at the time I didn’t care one way or the other that she was around.” His face flickered into a painful frown for a moment but then it was gone, replaced by a gentle smile. “Now, it appears to have stuck and she will be forever, Kitty.”

“She is just as I remember her,” Harry said wistfully, remembering the very first painting he’d had done for Draco.

“She’s an attention hog is what she is,” Draco replied, laughing. It felt so good to hear Draco’s laugh again. He realised he’d missed it more than he’d thought.

“Just like her owner.” He grinned back.

Draco narrowed his eyes playfully. “I’ll let you get away with that one, just this once.”

“And what will you do if I continue?” Harry was teasing and it amazed him that he fell back into the familiar banter so easily. It felt like twelve years had simply not existed.

Another flicker of unease passed over Draco’s face, but when he caught sight of Harry’s grin, he smirked. “Never get undressed in front of you again.”

Harry laughed. “You won’t be able to help yourself.”

“We’ll see,” Draco replied. They both knew that if they went back to the way they had been before then Draco would be naked for Harry’s eyes very soon. It was comforting in a way and Harry sat there silently, just enjoying the odd feeling of peace he was experiencing being in here and having sorted their relationship out as well as it could be sorted for now.

After several long moments, Draco placed the kitten on the floor and stood, moving closer to the front of the portrait. “Are you all right? You’ve gone terribly quiet.”

Harry smiled at him. “Just not used to doing a lot of speaking these past years. I’m afraid you’ll have to keep prompting me to speak.”

“I can do that. Apparently I am an attention hog, so I am sure I can manage to demand your attention fairly often.”

Harry could see what he was doing and he appreciated it. “I think I can handle that, as long as you can handle some pretty depressing sort of stuff when I do talk.”

“Of course. All your conversation is depressing, Potter,” Draco said, standing defensively, arms crossed but a smirk on his face that lit up his eyes showing Harry that he was joking.

“Wanker,” he replied fondly.

“I’ve had to be, living in here.”

Harry just smiled vaguely regretfully at him.

After several more moments, Draco took his seat again and spoke more seriously. “Are you talking about Hermione? I was really sorry to hear how she died.” Harry looked at him and Draco hastened to add. “Teddy told me.”

“Ah, Teddy.” He sighed. “Some is about Hermione, some about me and there’s a whole lot of guilt hanging around inside me for things I know aren’t my fault, but for which I can’t help feeling responsible.”

“So you think Weasley is right to blame you for everything that’s ever gone wrong in his family?”

Harry looked up at Draco’s sharp tone. “No, I don’t think he’s right, but I can see where he thinks he’s right.”

“Honestly, Harry, you’d think that you were responsible for the whole world. Let it go. You cannot do everything for everybody all the time. You are not the world’s keeper.”

“You sound just like Hermione,” Harry said. “With just the same amount of exasperation. She knew just how to tell me off in a way that made me feel like I was the world’s stupidest person, but she loved me anyway.”

“She always was a smart witch.”

That drew a raised eyebrow from Harry.

“Oh, don’t be so surprised. She saved your life on more than one occasion so I have cause to be more than grateful to her. Besides, I’m not the same horrid person I was back then. I know you’ll miss her sorely.”

“I will.” Harry’s face clouded over. “I really will. When Ron drifted away, she was about my only remaining friend and now…”

“And now you have me as well. And Ron will come around. He’ll come to his senses one day and see that you’re not responsible for their deaths and you’re still his best friend.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I came to my senses and I hated you. I wasn’t your best friend; I didn’t have that warring between love and hate. It’s a much smaller jump, so that’s how I know. Underneath it all, he does love you, you know that, he just…well maybe he knows that he can blame you and you’ll still be his mate. Maybe he needs to find someone to blame and you’re pretty safe because he trusts you so much.”

Harry had to admit he hadn’t thought of it like that. But perhaps Draco was right. He could assume he was right and act accordingly. Still be Ron’s best friend. With Hermione gone, he could call in and make sure he was looking after himself, though he was sure there was plenty of family who would do that.

Harry relaxed back into his chair, comfortable now and prepared for a long visit. He was so glad to be back, so happy to be once more looking at the portrait of the man he’d fallen in love with.

18