Fallen Angel
Chapter 04
If remodeling an old house and dealing with more family issues than what seemed fair weren't enough, Draco was at a fitness gym at present, with Ron, working on insuring that his exhaustion was all-consuming.
Draco was laying on one of the padded benches, panting, staring up at the ceiling.
"How is your arm?"
"Shoulder, and it hurts," Draco wheezed. "Fuck. I am left handed, and have to go and get myself shot in the left shoulder, and for what you ask? For Réamann's life? Yeah, I don't know what I was thinking either."
Ron ignored Draco's little jab about his friend and enquired further.
"I thought you were right handed."
"I have never made a point of telling you one way or the other."
"No, no, I distinctly remember your wand hand being your right."
Draco rolled his head over to look at Ron who was now very intently looking over at Draco as he spoke.
"In our third year, when you were a barmpot and went and got your arm torn off by a Hippogriff, you made it out to be an excuse not to have to do anything, and it was your right arm."
"I'm technically ambidextrous, but left hand dominant," Draco said blandly, just blinking over and up at Ron since looking at him had caused him to hang his head over the edge of the bench and now everything was upside-down.
"You wanker!" Ron grumbled.
"I never once tried to conceal my unctuous egotism, so don't act surprised that I milked an injury for all that it was worth while at Hogwarts. But you were right, my wand arm was my right, because my father wouldn't allow me to use my left. He said it was `improper' to do so," Draco said, tilting his head back onto the bench and using air quotes.
Ron looked over at him for a moment, then down, then was bold enough to enquire about something that had been bothering him.
"You never talk about your father."
"Nor am I about to now." Draco was quite snippish with that, making it clear he didn't want to get into the matter, but Ron pressed on, though delicately.
"Why not?"
"He's dead, what do you want me to say?" Draco barked.
"Well, anything really. We hang out a lot now, and-"
"I don't want to talk about it, alright?" he snapped. Ron just eased back and off the topic. Draco was perfectly pleasant, unless you got into some kind of personal discussion, then, suddenly, all sociability goes out the window with him. It wasn't exactly walking on thin ice because it took some pushing, so Ron didn't act surprised when his attempt fruited such results.
"How many curls did you do?" Ron asked, changing the luggish iron weights on the bar he stood beside as well as the conversation topic.
"That is none of your business, and I will thank you to stay out of my personal life," Draco drawled back at him, still sprawled out on the bench, clearly not angry but being a pain in the arse now.
"I am going to need a spotter," Ron said, his laugh and smile well concealed from his friend.
"I can see you from here."
"You know what I mean, get over here you bloody albino."
"Yes dear," Draco griped as he rolled off the bench and walked over to Ron, grabbing one of the small, rubber covered weights on the way and tossing it from hand to hand slowly as he waited.
"I'm going to need just a minute, could you stop humping my shoulder?" Ron asked, still situating the weights on the bar and Draco purposefully being too close so as to be a hindrance as retribution for having been asked to assist. Draco sighed loudly and wondered over to the scale that stood in the corner. He eyed it for a long moment, circled around it, and finally stepped up and looked down at the numbers. He narrowed his eyes.
"I have lost a pound."
"You are holding a five pound weight," Ron pointed out and Draco looked down at his hand to indeed see that he was still holding the small blue weight.
"Damn it."
"How is it that you struggle to keep an ounce of weight on, and I can't drop even one?" Ron grumbled as Draco came up behind him, to stand over the bar and spot Ron, should he need help. Ron was not fat, but he was certainly not thin, or slender, or even `well built' anymore. He had in youth been strong built, but ten years at a desk job and some bad eating habits had made him go a little soft and a little round around the tummy. Draco, in desperate need for some muscle mass of his own, teamed up with him at the gym, and it was obvious that each of the boys were struggling with their respective goals.
"I don't eat everything in my sight," Draco ridiculed and Ron huffed and lifted the bar with his elbows now locked. Draco helped direct the bar level with Ron's chest but then proceeded to stand there as Ron did the presses.
"Ginny has been on your case about eating though, right?"
"I eat plenty," Draco grumbled.
"Yeah? What have you had today?" Ron challenged as he pressed and Draco paused for a second.
"A hardboiled egg for breakfast," Draco mumbled, knowing what was to come.
"And you know what you had for lunch? A tomato, a bloody raw tomato. You sliced up a tomato, sprinkled it with a little salt, and called it a meal. That is why you are losing all the weight you just put on. You need to take in more calories than you burn to put on weight."
"And by extension you should be taking in fewer than you burn so as to lose weight, but that seems to be over your lump of a head," Draco retorted, feeling rather confident in insulting Ron while Ron was pinned as he was. Draco was bold, however, to pick a fight with a man that could bench-press more than he, Draco, weighed.
"When we are through here, I am taking you out to get something to eat," Ron huffed as he pressed.
"Sounds charming," Draco drawled, heavily suggesting that Ron had homosexual fantasies about him, which was something he teased Ron about often. If Ron didn't have one-hundred-sixty pounds suspended in the air above his chest at the moment, he would have hit Draco.
"Hey," a man called and Draco looked up just as Ron started to show signs of struggling.
"Shit," Draco hissed, backing up so as not to be there to help Ron set the bar back. "It's Réamann," he said as he attempted to make himself scarce.
"I invited him. Jesus, a little help here?"
"Don't call me Jesus," Draco called back as he was now clearly on retreat. Réamann came into view in time to see Ron looking a little red faced as he was stranded there, without a spotter. Réamann came to his aid.
"Hey there, hold on," he said in his jolly Irish accent, helping Ron lift the bar the last few inches it needed to reach its cradle and directed it right into spot.
"Thanks, mate," Ron panted as he sat up, mopping his face with his towel.
"You shouldn't do that without a spotter," Réamann warned.
"I had one, but the little ferret bounced off," Ron grumbled.
"Draco is here?" Réamann asked, knowing instantly who Ron had meant.
"Yeah."
"Did I miss him?"
"Apparently."
"He is still avoiding me, isn't he," Réamann asked, sounding downtrodden as he took his own towel from around his neck and set it on the bar of a treadmill beside them.
"Yeah," Ron answered honestly, taking a hefty gulp of his water bottle.
"Why, I mean, it has been months…"
"You make him uncomfortable," Ron answered without allowing Réamann to get any kind of longwinded question or complaint out.
"But I have been nothing but supportive despite the fact…"
"I know, that's what makes him so uncomfortable, I imagine."
"Would he rather I pound his visage in and hate his innards for the extent of the rest of our lives?" Réamann demanded, a little frustrated that he was being avoided for attempting to be a fairly decent person.
"In all actuality, probably," Ron said truthfully as he and Réamann started to run, the part of the work-out Ron hated the most, Draco already hitting the showers. He was not a coward, he was just avoiding a headache. That's what he told himself as the voice in the back of his head called him chickenshit.
It wasn't much later that Ron had Draco at a restaurant for "a spot of nosh", just as he had promised -or threatened- Réamann not with them citing prior commitments, though Ron had a feeling he was now just avoiding Draco at that point.
"You have to give him a bloody break," Ron said to Draco.
"Says who?" Draco said blandly as he forked his salad, spreading the little bit of dressing around, preparing for a bite, Ron already finished with his soup, Draco a slow eater.
"Says me, a rational and concerned person and friend to both of you," Ron quipped and Draco just nibbled at his leafs. "How do you expect to put on any weight eating that crap? Ugh, rabbit food." Ron complained, diverting from one point to another. Draco didn't appreciate the constant lecturing, yet seemed to complain very little about it on the other hand. He either felt it made up for all the bullying of their youth, or was flattered that Ron cared so much, possibly a combination of the two.
"Do I look like a rabbit to you?" Draco snapped in a drawling manner while still focusing on his plate.
"No, you look like a ferret." Ron smiled.
"I hate you," Draco pouted.
"No you don't, and you need food before you bloody disappear," he said, boldly -but still subtly- brandishing his wand and swiping it in a defined but subdued manner, causing Draco's plate to clear.
"Hey," he grumbled.
"I am ordering your main course for you, and it is going to be real food," Ron announced, hiding his wand just as the waitress came back, as though some sort of extra sensory perception allowed her to know that a plate was now clear.
"We ready then?" she asked, Draco glaring at Ron as he made subtle stabbing motions with his fork behind the woman's back, directed at Ron, all the while glaring.
"Yes," Ron answered, undeterred by Draco's irritation. "I will have the open roast beef sandwich with the side of potatoes, heavy on the gravy, light on the greens," he said.
"And this is why you are fat," Draco grumbled into Ron's mind, Ron glaring at him for a moment before continuing. "And he will have…let's see, how about the ham…"
"I don't eat pork," he said.
"Don't be difficult."
"My father was Jewish, piss-off," Draco said quite simply and that was enough to get Ron to press on, mention of Draco's father as an almost dare on Draco's part for him to enquire further, only promising bad results.
"Alright, how about the shrimp sca…"
"I can't have shellfish…"
"The Cot,"
"I can't have fish," Draco said and Ron slapped his menu down to glare at Draco, believing him to just be being difficult, the waitress standing there, pen and pad poised and looking between them, a little uncomfortable.
"I'm allergic to seafood," Draco elaborated, crossing his arms and leaning back.
"This is why you are a skeleton," Ron retorted to Draco's previously unspoken jab.
"I can order for myself," he protested.
"Fine, then do so," Ron grumbled, handing his menu back to the woman who took it graciously, but silently.
"I will have the turkey sandwich, extra tomatoes, no mayonnaise," Draco said quite kindly to the woman as he handed back his menu and folded his exceedingly long fingers together under his nose while resting his elbows on the table to smile from behind them at Ron in a challenging way.
"Can I top you off while you wait?" she asked, somehow summoning a coffee pot to hand from somewhere seemingly out of sight.
Draco nodded, there being far too much blood in his caffeine stream, Ron declining but ordering a drink.
"You are impossible," Ron sighed once the woman had left them alone.
"She believes us to be squabbling lovers," Draco said, it now revealed why he was smiling like he was behind his thin fingers.
"Merlin," Ron said, taking a big bite of bread and talking with his mouth full like that was enough to prove his masculinity and sooth his wounded pride.
"Now Ron-Ron, I'm hurt that you are not at the very least flattered by this," Draco teased.
"I could do better than you," Ron retorted.
"Who -of the two of us- is the single one?" Draco asked as he stirred his fresh coffee slowly.
"You are the one that looks like the fag, with your long hair, and frilly cloths."
"What's wrong with my clothes?" Draco snapped defensively. They were still in work-out attire, Ron's a pair of long shorts and a t-shirt, but Draco's an actual set of gym apparel. He wore a pair of black track pants and a tight and long sleeved shirt that only made him look all the more thin given that it was knit and lycra of a baby-blue color.
"Your track shoes even match your outfit, black with little blue swish things. Only women and poofters color coordinate."
"I'll have you know that I had no hand in choosing any color of this lovely ensemble, Ginny is the one that got this for me. She likes me in blue, some rubbish about making my eyes stand out, and it happens to be my favorite color, so you can get fucked," Draco snapped, drawling still but his eyes giving hint to just how annoyed and insulted he was. "And just because you look like you were dressed by an obtuse and colorblind troll does not give you the right to say you are more manly, just because you don't care. Clearly, women are not attracted to the slightly over-weight, sloppily dressed."
"I hate you."
"No you don't," Draco said confidently as he took a sip of his coffee smugly, having proven his point quite nicely, the point that he was not gay, and of the two of them, he would be the one that would more easily snag a woman. Ron looked a little sour. "Oh come on now," Draco said, now attempting to comfort his…friend. "I would date you if I were into chaps. I like red-heads," he teased and Ron laughed a little, then a little more, finally just shaking his head, grateful for Draco's attempt but still bothered over what Draco had said.
"It's just hard to see everyone else pair off and have kids and everything, and still be alone," he said, needing his beer. Chaps couldn't have heart-to-hearts without beer.
"You are doing quite fine, Ron. You are a handful of months older than me, and single. That isn't terrible. I mean, you have a good job, a nice pad, a steady income, and just enough fame to put a little swagger into your step. I can't imagine what you are complaining about; would you rather be 31 and a father of a tumultuous teenager, or two, with another on the way?"
"I'm not exactly complaining that I'm not you," Ron sighed.
"But you are still complaining."
"You piss and moan all the time you blood hypocrite."
"This have to do with Harry then?"
"I don't want…"
"We all know you want to be him," Draco said very bluntly, speaking for more than just himself, Ron unable to lie to him and him being a little forward just to preempt some kind of argument that would distract from the point he was trying to make. "You are more than him, and you living in his shadow is not right, mate."
"Harry is great," Ron sighed and Draco gave him a not amused look. "I know you hate him, and you have reason to, but like you have said many times, good and evil are relative. To you he is bad, but to many he is good," he said and Draco blinked at him, his own logic turned around and used against him. Wait, had Ron just said something clever and intelligent? Wait, was he, Draco, unable to argue back and make a counter point? Wait, had Ron just been right? Draco didn't know what to do…he needed coffee.
"Fine, but to the point I was about to make…" Draco said, attempting to recover quickly, "You have lived in Harry's shadow of greatness since the day you met him, and though you have showed great resentment for that, you have never made a serious attempt at freeing yourself from him either."
"He and I are best mates,"
"Even after he knocked up your ex?" Draco asked rather harshly.
"Hermione and Harry are both grown adults, and friends of mine, and I wish them each nothing but happiness, even if that happiness is with each other," he said, the dullness in his voice not missed by Draco, even without his ability to read Ron's obvious emotions.
"Don't play it off like it isn't tearing you up inside that Harry is having a baby with the love of your life, and you can't do a thing about it, or speak a word against it without looking like a jerk and risk losing both as friends."
"What would you have me do?" Ron barked.
"Tell them how you honestly feel," Draco said simply.
"And what would that accomplish other than drive the two of them away?"
"Maybe it would be best if you distanced yourself from them, not in the sense that you should no longer be friends, but you can't live life vicariously through Potter forever, you can't have Granger through him."
Ron sighed.
"You need a girl, mate," Draco said with some mild compassion.
"I had the most wonderful girl in the world and I fucked it up."
"As I recall, she was an over-doting bitch with impossibly high standards and unreasonable expectations, who was work obsessed and a nightmare to live with," Draco said, taking a sip of his coffee. "And she has hideous hair," he added, pulling his lips away from his cup only a fraction.
"How do you…" Ron started to ask and Draco just tapped the side of his pointed nose with his thin finger in a knowing way and Ron sighed. "Yeah, we fought a lot, but…"
"But nothing. You were miserable, you two had a fling where lust ran high and functionality and reason ran low. You two were too different to even be a balance to one another, too stubborn to work. You lasted a brief time, longer than I would have projected, and it ended years ago. You need to move on," Draco said as though that were the final word in the matter, and Ron sighed in a defeated way because Draco was right, as he often was.
"Sometimes I don't know when you are just being smart, or when you are being a jackarse."
"It's a fine line I tread. Some would claim I'm just a smartarse and cover both," Draco said smoothly as their food arrived.
"Still,"
"No excuses. If it bothers you so much that everyone around you is procreating, get yourself a girl and dig in. It really isn't as hard as you are making it sound. Look at me; I'm snobbish, imprudent, and impossible, yet I still managed to get a few bints in my time."
"Yeah, but you can play off that arrogant streak that so many women like."
"Girls like arseholes, not women. Woman like sensitive types, and given what a wining bitch you are being at present, you fit the bill nicely I must say."
"Yeah, well, you're also pretty," Ron mopped, jabbing at his food just placed before him by the recently returned waitress.
"Thanks dear," Draco said as he ran his toe up the side of Ron's leg which only got him kicked harshly as the waitress left with slightly pinkening ears. Draco continued on as he rubbed his leg sorely, wishing he would start listening to those nagging doubts in the back of his mind. "If you are concerned that it is an aesthetic issue, I can't imagine how you are using me as a counter example. I am scrawny and always sick, I'm allergic to half the things on the planet, I always look like I'm scowling, and I'm covered in scars, thus the long sleeves," he said, holding up his forearms for emphases. "You are…god, do I have to sit here and tell you all the ways you are attractive? If you are not feeling gay enough as it is, I'm sure that will only help," Draco grumbled, dodging another, more playful kick for Ron.
"We are going to play therapy," Draco announced and Ron looked at him in a doubtful way as he dug into his meal. "No, it works, I have to do this every Friday. Instead of focusing only on the bad things in life…in this case your ghastly appearance…say what's good and focus on that," he said, almost having to stand from the table to avoid being kicked again. Ron kicked like a mule; he either needed to avoid his hooves at all costs, or stop insulting him if he hoped to walk away from their lunch.
"I go to therapy already," Ron grumbled.
"And it's doing wonders for your self-esteem," Draco quipped.
"Like you are one to talk about self-esteem," Ron retorted.
"Hey, I'm not the one crying in my nosh about how ugly I am, I got over that years ago," he said and Ron rolled his eyes. Sometimes he got the impression that Draco thought himself to be `the shit" and other time he truly felt that Draco believed himself ugly. He wasn't sure which was the act, but he had a feeling the answer was on the more depressing side. "Alright, you are tall, strong built, you have blue eyes, red hair, freckles which I hear women will fawn over…you work out so you will be strapping and imposing in no time, what do you want?"
"Hermione," Ron mumbled and Draco rapped him with his fork.
"Bad Ron. No," Draco reprimanded, both serious and mocking. "What if I promise to set you up with someone?" he offered, Ron looking at him with his mouth so full of roast beef that his cheeks were bulging.
"Rewe?" he muttered though it.
"Really," Draco said, only having taken a single bite of his own sandwich at that point.
"Who?" Ron asked after swallowing hard.
"I won't tell you her name, but she is our age, went to Hogwarts with us. I think I could get a hold of her, I know she is single."
"What house was she in?" Ron asked skeptically.
"Now Ron, what should that matter? School unity over house unity, didn't the war teach you anything?" Draco jeered. In the end of the war, when it came to what house who was in, it turned out not to matter. Crafty Slytherins stood along side noble Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs risked everything for the greater good; it was inspiring to see people young and old seeing past their trivial prejudices and misapprehensions and doing what was right. School unity was something treasured for the years following, but with every year between those events and the current school residents, house unity started to take precedence once again. Draco knew this to be true because he had sent his son there, and things seemed to have fallen right back into place as how they were when he was young: Slytherins pitted against Gryffindors and all caught in the middle expected to take a side but damned either way by the side they did not choose to support.
"I am just trying to imagine who she could be, and don't act like you can't tell a lot about a person by what house they were in, it is chosen for you based on predominant attributes."
"Those were some big words you just used there. I guess shagging Granger does make you smarter," Draco attempted to jeer but was kicked promptly.
"It isn't Millicent Balustrade, is it?"
"No, she is married," Draco hissed, curling his legs up onto his chair so he was sitting in Indian fashion, poor manner, but for safety measure.
"Ugh…now I'm really depressed," Ron moped.
"Come on now…"
"I will give this bint a chance, if you are willing to give Réamann and chance," Ron bargained and Draco shook his head.
"I am doing you a favor, no way am I bending over backwards while I'm at it," he said, shaking his head.
"He is only trying to be nice. One would think you would welcome that."
"I'm not used to people being nice to me," he said while still rubbing his sore shin.
"Given how little my family likes you at the moment, you really need all the support you can get," Ron argued and Draco groaned, having not thought about his `in-laws' all afternoon and having enjoyed it.
"Your family are the only people I would actually bust my balls to be granted acceptance, and Réamann is what I could do without the most."
"That's cruel fate."
"Or karma..."
------------------------
"Daddy, that's too much," Clarissa said as she stood in the kitchen with Draco, a large bowl before her, a sturdy wooden spoon in hand as she appeared to be stirring the sticky contents. She was kneeling up on the bench pushed up to the table while Draco stood beside her, a whole mess of ingredients between them.
"It is not," Draco said blandly, adding another scoop of peanut butter to the bowl and then sucking on his knuckle where he had gotten some on himself.
"It is," Clarissa scolded before appealing to Ginny who just walked into the room. "Ginny, Daddy is ruining the cookies," she complained as Draco added another spoonful of peanut butter.
"I am not, I am the birthday boy, these are my cookies, and they will have as much peanut butter in them as I say."
"Your birthday was almost a month ago, you can't keep playing by `the birthday boy rules' it's not fair," Clarissa argued.
"I haven't had my party yet, and that is what is not fair. My cookies and I say more peanut butter," he said, taking the spoon from her to stir the dough himself.
"Don't worry, Claire, if he burns them, he will have to eat them all himself," Ginny laughed as Clarissa got down to read the recipe again and huff with her hands on her hips, the book clearly calling for 50 grams of peanut butter and her father having added at least twice that.
"Gladly," Draco said stubbornly, mixing in the flour then a bit at a time. Ginny was accustomed to this sort of childish bantering between Draco and his children, they acted a lot like siblings half the time, and she found it beyond amusing.
Clarissa moved over to Ginny to hang on her a little, and give a kiss to her tummy and talk to the baby. She had been reading a lot, like Draco had, but less on parenting, and more on baby development and such. She was convinced that talking to the baby would help it be smarter.
"Hey there. Almost that time, you know? You better come before I go off to Hogwarts or I will be very cross with you," she said and Ginny attempted not to laugh since it would make her tummy bounce in Clarissa's face.
"Don't come too soon, either, we haven't the time or place to deal with you at the present," Draco added, mixing sugar now too.
"Draco," Ginny laughed in an outraged sort of way.
"I believe in being brutally honest with my children," Draco said resolutely. "It worked for my parents."
"And we all see the fruits of that toil," Ginny teased.
Draco glared before sticking the tip of the wooden spoon in his mouth (it to large to fit in its entirety) and nibbled at the cookie dough on it.
"Clarissa, why don't you wash up while I throw these in the oven," Draco suggested, eating at the overly peanut buttery dough more than anything.
"But…" she tried to argue but Draco just snapped his fingers at her and pointed towards the stairs. Clarissa went, begrudgingly, without anything more needing to be said or done and Ginny watched as she went.
"You don't have to be so harsh."
"I wasn't, I was being firm."
"You were being your father."
"Like you knew him," Draco grumbled.
"I hope you don't expect to order out little one around like that."
"I am the seasoned parent here," Draco argued, putting globs of dough on the baking pan in neat little rows in a well practiced fashion. You wouldn't know by looking at him, but Draco baked a lot. He enjoyed it, and loved sweets.
"I'm not the one taking my annoyance with Michael out on her."
"I am doing no such thing," Draco said, clearly offended by such an accusation.
"Not in a redirected way, but in an all around unfair way. You are being short with him, and so as to not to show favoritism you are just as short with her, but the thing is, she didn't do anything to deserve it."
"I am not…"
"Yes you are, I asked you last night."
"When?"
"When you were trying to sleep."
"What have I told you about interrogating me when I am half awake," Draco huffed.
"It's the best way to get honest answers out of you without a fuss."
Draco sighed.
"I just don't know what to do about Michael, or your family."
"You can't do anything when it comes to other people, Draco. My family will come around, they always do, and Michael is just at that, you know, age. He is going to be a teenager soon," she said, then having to talk over Draco's prolonged and mournful groan, "And he is going to butt heads with you every now and then. It's a Y chromosome thing," she said, rubbing at his thin back. "Let's not dwell, anyways. We should really be thinking about the house, and the nursery…I was thinking…"
"We are on a budget, you know," Draco sighed, knowing exactly what Ginny was thinking, knowing she wanted to go over their projected spending to do something a little extra.
"Draco-"
"I don't have a job anymore, Ginny, and this pile of inheritance will only take us so far without some kind of income, and you can't support us, not with you taking leave soon to have the baby," he snapped, not at her, but just angry over the whole situation in general and letting that be known.
"You will find one soon," she assured, Draco scoffing as he put the baking pan in the oven and closed it, setting the timer with much redirected aggression. "Draco…"
"You know I love you and wouldn't dream of changing you, but this fantasy world you live in is even more far-out than the one Clarissa clings to so dearly," he quipped, wiggling his fingers up in the air for emphasis and annoyance.
"You are being unreasonable."
"You are being delusional. You are fooling yourself if you think me, an ex Death Eater on top of also being a werewolf, will be able to get a job. I can't even work for Muggles, the Ministry doesn't allow Muggles to be `exposed'."
"It's illegal to discriminate…"
"Don't be naive, Ginny," he sighed, plopping down on the bench beside Ginny where she was already seated. She reached up and tucked his hair behind his ear for him, the roots already grown in white, him having refused to do anything about the color she had had him get a while back. His hair was white, and dying it blond again had been fun, but he felt silly doing so. Ron teased him enough for being gay. As it was, the white had grown in past his chin.
"You can still appeal to the Ministry. They shouldn't have fired you in the first place, I mean, after all you did…"
"I only had a job there because I was on probation. Jobs are mandatory at that point, so as to keep an eye on us while they maintain this sugary façade that they care. I was pardoned, and cleared of all charges, but that means that they didn't have to employ me any longer. I acted shady enough, even with the best of intentions, and they didn't trust me in the first place, so there was no hope they would keep me around after all the deception and manipulating I did."
"But, you were good at your job…"
"So will be anyone else they get for the position," Draco sighed, having had this conversation with Ginny in the past already.
"I hate this submissive and defeatist attitude of yours, Draco. It's like you are willing to roll over and just let them sack you without a fight."
"It was three months ago, Ginny. If they were not going to listen to my pleas in any of that time, they are not going to now. I have applied elsewhere, with no success. I am trying, and that is the best I can do, but forgive me for remaining reserved in my optimism. I have this thing about not getting my hopes up on something that is guaranteed to let down. I really can't handle much more disappointment in my life."
"You can't have such a pessimistic outlook on things. Damn it, you need to set goals and reach for them."
"I find setting no goals is best. I cannot be disappointed if I have no expectations to begin with, and it's always nice to be surprised if things go unexpectedly well," Draco said, his tone clearly joking, but Ginny knowing there was a lot of truth behind what he was saying.
"We can talk to Harry," she said and Draco just glared at her. "He can talk to someone about this injustice," she said and Draco was unrelenting but entirely silent in his glaring. "Okay, fine, we wont go to Harry," she sighed, knowing how much Draco hated Harry, but needing to have at least tried to suggest it to feel that she had done all that she could.
"I can't do this to another baby," Draco admitted with a sigh, pulling his knees up to his chest as he sat on the bench, nearly hugging them, as was his standard position for any insecure tirade of his.
"The baby is fine," she argued."
"Other than the fact he or she will be a werewolf, and a Malfoy, and quite possibly have Marfan Syndrome, he or she will also be born into a divided family, with resentful in-laws, a tight budget, and more press-coverage than an actual celebrity. We won't be able to make a single minor mistake without the world knowing and blowing it WAY out of proportion, and our child won't be able to live a life that isn't documented, a life that is as normal as is to be expected for the son or daughter of a Death Eater."
Ginny frowned her brows together, not sure where to start combating Draco's outburst first.
"There is nothing wrong with being a Malfoy."
"You tell that to the media, and your family," he countered bitterly.
"Being a werewolf is hard, but your children are evidence of the fact that one can live a happy life with the condition…"
"Yeah, my son who seems to hate the world and everyone in and who won't even speak to me, and my daughter who refuses to advance beyond an age resembling a six-year-old," Draco sighed, using his wooden spoon to nudge measuring cups across the table in a distracted fashion, so he didn't have to look at Ginny.
She wasn't sure at this point if she should divert her attempts of reassuring Draco to focus now on just the children, or continue on in attempts of disproving his original statement. She hadn't exactly been excelling at that so far.
"You shouldn't worry about your Marfan Syndrome being passed on at all, Clarissa doesn't have it-"
"But Michael does."
"And it is not harmful," she finished, speaking over him. Both Draco and Michelangelo had the syndrome, it was genetic, but neither had it severe enough to cause more than just the typical long limbs, fingers and toes, slightly curved spine, and protruding sternum. Some symptoms -such as poor eye sight and weakened liver- intensified with age, however, and Draco was experiencing these things, and it did have a rather serious complication of an enlarged and weakened heart which Ginny worried about with Draco's low-weight, but there was no reason to believe the child would be born with the most extreme case ever. "It is in no way debilitating, you display minor symptoms, Michael barely more than you," -most were tall, and Draco was not, but Michelangelo was, already having grown five inches since Christmas- "so I don't understand why you are beating yourself up over this, like it is somehow your fault that your father gave it to you, like his father had to him."
"It's just one more thing…"
"Yes, one more thing, one more thing," Ginny snapped. "You are always looking for the next terrible thing to add to your list of grievances. Just one more thing on your conscience, one more hardship to cause yourself."
"I am not looking for problems where there are none, Ginny. I did not name anything that is not a legitimate concern."
"We have a swell of gold still, and it will be depleted very quickly if we continued to spend the way we do on this house, thus you established and strictly enforce a budget and that was smart, and I am grateful for that. I am sorry that I keep over-projecting and causing you a headache, I should be more appreciative of your efforts," she said, apologizing but in tones much too firm to mean she was truly sorry, she just trying to get Draco to listen to her. He was unemployed at the moment, and the prospects certainly didn't look good for him getting a job any time soon, but that didn't mean she wanted him to sit around and accept defeat.
"Yes, hiding the fact I am pregnant is hard, but if we…"
"We can't tell anyone," he said flatly.
"They will find out eventually," Ginny argued, not exactly reveling in the idea of the response she would undoubtedly get with this news, but just wishing she could get it out there, to try and get past that upset before the baby came.
"No one at the Ministry can know that you are more than six months pregnant with my baby, Ginny," Draco warned and Ginny sighed, not about to argue over this, not again. Thanks to clever wardrobe and even cleverer spells, she had been honoring Draco's desire to keep from the world the fact that they were expecting, but she would have to fess up soon to get her required maternity leave.
"If this is about the money, Draco-"
"It isn't."
"Even if I work and you were a stay at home dad…"
"This isn't about money," he refuted, a little snappily.
They had been preparing for months now to be having a very expensive baby. Michelangelo had been a very sickly baby, Clarissa not as much so, but both costing a pretty knut to care for with how often they stayed in the hospital and such.
Ginny knew Draco was stressed over everything from Michelangelo and the family, to work and budget, to the coming baby, to the press hounding him, to finding a job, and so many more things he would not even discuss or share with her, on top of the full moon was fast approaching. She didn't know how to make him relax, but he needed to understand that she had worries too, and sometimes she needed comforting too. The moon was always a stressful time but now more than ever with her pregnant and compilations running at an all-time high at that point. He was practically haggard with stress and worry, how did he think she felt?
"Just hug me," he said, dropping his knees to gather up Ginny in his arms then, and her allowing it. She found comfort in hugs too, so she allowed herself to get lost in it as Draco did the same and the smell of baking peanut butter cookies filled the air. Draco tucked his nose into her hair and took in her sweet scent, closing his eyes and clinging to her so desperately.
---------------------------
"That is so sad, the poor little Hippogriff," Clarissa moaned, leaning on the arm of the couch, listening to the magical tuner where the wizarding news was playing. At that moment there was coverage of the illegal pouching of Hippogriffs in the Welsh area. Clarissa was in her night-dress, Draco was in his chair reading the paper, trying hard not to dose off, and Ginny was having a lie-down on the couch to try and relieve her back. It wasn't that late, but given how much work was being done from morning on, eight-thirty seemed damn late.
"Just so you know, `little', and `Hippogriff', they do not go together," Draco grumbled from behind his paper.
"Daddy doesn't like Hippogriffs, I don't know why," Clarissa explained to Ginny, whose eyes were closed but was still responsive if spoken to.
"He doesn't, does he?" she asked, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
"Shut it, you," Draco warned blandly.
"Do you know why Daddy doesn't like them?" Clarissa abandoning the radio to speak to Ginny.
"I have an idea," Ginny teased, finally opening her eyes to glance slyly in Draco's direction.
"I hate you," he said from behind the paper.
"No you don't," Ginny said confidently, snuggling into the pillow behind her head more and holding her stomach as the baby moved to seemingly get more comfortable as well. It was then that the phone rang.
Draco sighed and leaned over to pick it up. They had had the phone hooked up for only three days now and already he was getting calls? Who would be calling him? His mother lived with them, and the Weasleys didn't exactly make practice of Muggle communication (not that they would call him regardless) he didn't have any friends, and Ginny's all would have owled.
Answering was the only way to find out.
"Malfoy," he said into the phone.
-------------------
Draco stalked down the hallway of the Muggle building with such a ferocious wrath about him that magic threatened to happen if he allowed his anger to erupt. The glass on the door he passed cracked and Draco did not even pause; he just kept walking, taking a corner and entering through a propped open door. There before him was a large but very cramped room, some fifteen or more office desks all crammed into the space, chairs scattered along side and in front of each. Papers were stacked everywhere, boards with papers, pictures, and notes covered the walls while some too were free standing and tucked where they could fit. Filing cabinets lined the walls and took up every last inch of space, leaving only narrow walkways between them and the desks. There were a few men inside, in uniform, and in one of the chairs, beside one of the desks, with his head down and hands folded in his lap, Michelangelo sat very quietly.
"Mr. Malfoy?" the man closest to Michelangelo asked, not really needing to, the resemblance unquestionable but it being the best way to go about introductions given the nature of the situation.
"Yes," Draco said dutifully though letting his suspicion be known, accepting the man's hand to shake briefly, but firmly.
"Deputy Harris," the man said, introducing himself. "I'm glad you could make it all the way down here so quickly."
"Yes, well, you certainly made it seem pressing," Draco said dryly, unable to look away from his son as he sat still, intent on acting like he didn't know his father was there. This was not his recent attitude of ignoring his father, as was perusal, but more of a terrified dread that made him wish he could pretend he was not here, in this place, with his father standing with the police officer.
"I didn't want to get into it with you on the phone, so I was hoping we could discuss this in the other room, away from-"
"Discuss what?" Draco demanded.
"-the boy," the man finished, though answering Draco's question too. Draco looked at the man, then his son, then back to the man before nodding. He allowed himself to be taken to a separate room where he was offered a seat, offered some water, but no answers.
"I am to understand from your phone call that my son is in trouble?" Draco asked, remaining as calm as possible while all he really wanted to do was shake the man and demand to know what his son had done. Draco was not even humoring the idea that Michelangelo was innocent of whatever it was he was being accused of. He could pry, but he doubted he would like what he saw, and the Muggle man wouldn't understand what Draco was flipping out over if he hadn't yet told him anything.
"Tonight, around seven pm, where was your son?" the cop asked, demanding answers rather than giving them. Draco knew this was not a good sign.
"Up until the call I had believed him in his bedroom. Clearly I was wrong, so I obviously do not have an answer for you," Draco drawled.
"We got a call, a woman reporting some vandalism happening in the parking lot of her apartment building. She claimed to have seen at least three boys on the premise, but we only apprehended one."
"My son," Draco sighed.
"He hasn't talked since we brought him in, hasn't admitted or relinquished his friends. As it is, the damage is quite extensive and we have to charge him," the man said and Draco looked up at him.
"He's twelve," he said in disbelief.
"On five different cars, windows were broken, the side-mirrors were ripped off, and the tires were slashed. Glass bottles were broken all over the parking lot, concrete parking bumpers were moved and broken, parking admittance signs were vulgarly defaced, and there seemed to have been some kind of attempt to start a fire using cigarettes and some cardboard boxes, but they were too wet to light thanks to the summer showers we recently had, so they just burned each other instead…your son has at least three cigarette burns on his left forearm," the man said and Draco just listened in disbelief that his son would do, or be a part of, such things.
The man seemed to understand Draco's shock, and was there to immediately start comforting.
"We know your son did not act alone, and it is likely he was not the ringleader and was probably just goaded on to participate by the other boys, you know how that is when boys get together in a group," he said and Draco nodded slowly, looking down at his hands as he laced them atop the table. "Thing is, the total damage does amass to quite a sum of money, and vehicular vandalism is a pretty serious offence. He is twelve, like you said, so we are more willing to cut him some slack, if he tells us who the other boys are. The woman described them as looking older, about fifteen or so, and if that is the case, then I have no doubt in my mind that they were the instigators in all this," he said and Draco believed him, able to sense the man's thoughts, his tactics. He was trying to buddy up to him, act consoling and concerned, in hopes that he would go into the other room and not start screaming at his son, but work with him to get a confession out of him and for him to name names. Draco doubted his son would do such a thing, but, then again, if someone had asked him an hour ago if his son would ever participate in vehicular vandalism, he would have said no.
"How much is the damage?" Draco asked after a deep breath.
--------------
Stepping back out of the office, into the main room where Michelangelo sat very obediently still with a bandage taped to his left forearm, Draco looked extremely tight around the mouth as he walked up to his son. He stood before him and Michelangelo sat there, head down for as long as possible before slowly looking up at his father through his curls. Draco's face, despite the tightness, was as bland as it could ever be.
"Michael, you are being released to your father, but you have a hearing. Your father has all the details," Deputy Harris announced, Michelangelo, if possible, looking more frightened. "You head home with him, and you stay out of trouble," he warned and Michelangelo nodded very readily, standing up from the chair but looking down at his feet. He sensed movement before him, and expected a great many things but for one, which was his father turning and walking away. Not a word, not a gesture of any sort of anger, nothing. He just walked away, expecting Michelangelo to follow, and he did.
Draco trekked back the way he had come, his anger still there but better contained this time so as to not to cause any breaking glass or sparks. Michelangelo was at his heals, and followed him out to the car. He dreaded getting in because he wasn't sure if he should sit front or back, but was sure the yelling would commence either way, as soon as he was closed within.
Draco slid into the car without a word and started it. His seatbelt was on and he looked ready to go before Michelangelo even had the door open. Fearing that his father would just leave with or without him, he opened the passenger door and ducked in the front. Draco was exiting the parking lot moments later.
The drive was absolutely silent, just the sound of the road rushing below them and the cars on the street. Michelangelo sat there, daring a glance over at his father whenever he built up enough nerve but otherwise sat quietly, staring at his lap. He knew his father was angry, he knew his father knew what the Muggle man had told him and then more, he knew he was in trouble…a lot of it, but he would have felt so much better if his father would just yell at him. If his father went off yelling and hollering about how he had been raised this way, or that, or what was acceptable, and what was terrible… something… anything. Michelangelo didn't know what to do with himself given his father's silent conviction, his lack of reaction.
One of the times Michelangelo looked up he attempted to speak, but all he managed was to open his mouth and take a slightly louder breath before he had to look away again. He felt terrible, and what might be all that would save him the all mighty and unholy Malfoy wrath was that his father was a Legilimens and he would be able to sense that in him. Michelangelo spent a good deal of that silent time attempting to make obvious his remorseful and guilty feelings, so as to be sure his father could not miss them. All he needed was for his father to now yell at him and everything will be alright. That is what Michelangelo kept telling himself.
It didn't happen, however. Draco pulled into Grimmauld Square and then up to the house, and still he did not share a word, harsh or otherwise. He unfastened himself, and got out of the car, and Michelangelo followed suit. He stayed behind his father, like that would somehow also help depict his repentance, and allowed his father to key in and hold the door. Michelangelo hurried in and the door closed behind him. It didn't slam, the windows didn't shake. Michelangelo turned to face his father then, attempting to say something, but his voice dying in his throat the moment he made eye contact with him. Draco didn't look mad at all, he looked indifferent and very tired. Michelangelo's insides cried out for some kind of reaction, anything, but all he got was his father's blank stare.
"I'm…I'm going to my room," he finally said, Draco granting him one curt nod before walking down the narrow hall and disappearing into the drawing room. Michelangelo turned around and rushed up the stairs, practically on his hands and feet, in his haste to hide in his room.
He got there, and stayed there, for over an hour. Ten o'clock rolled by, and he was hungry, but he dared not leave his room. He sat there, knees hugged to his chest, an unrelenting queasiness having settled in his stomach, caused by his uncertainty more than anything. His father's reaction left him tentative, and unresolved. Knowing he had a "hearing" to go to also left him on edge. He had to go to a Muggle court? Would he go to jail? Yes he had gotten carried away, but he hadn't broken into those cars…they couldn't send him, a twelve-year-old, to prison for that, right?
Michelangelo tipped over on his bed and took a shuddering breath, on the verge of tears again.
What if he went to go talk to his father, would that be proactive while at the same time demonstrate his regret? If he could speak to his father, he could attempt to explain what had happened…what had happened? That he had snuck out while grounded to meet with some older boys that he barely knew to smoke and loiter in a parking lot where things escalated into destruction of property of which he had been a willing participant at first until car windows were broken, then bogies showed up, then he was caught while the other boys got away…surely his father wouldn't be thrilled with that account.
Michelangelo's stomach made an uncomfortable lurch which forced him to his feet. He couldn't sleep.
Creeping down the stairs cautiously, he had a good idea where to find his father.
Draco was at his desk, in the small room he had designated for his office, one of the few rooms in that house that was nearly done. He hadn't any need for an "office" really, but it was just another thing that he did that seemed to exemplify his desire to be his father. It was furnished much the same way, with the big intimidating desk and the low-lit lamps. There was a beautiful rug down that had belonged to the Black family for years that Draco had gotten restored, and the desk had been his great grandfathers. Draco, while in that house, seemed to take a greater pride in his pureblooded heritage than he ever had in his little Muggle apartment. It was something that worried Ginny. She claimed to see an old light in him flare to life with that house, and she didn't like it much.
Michelangelo rapped the door with his knuckles as he opened it, and he peered in slowly, half wishing to find the room empty. Draco looked up from the paperwork in front of him, his glasses perched on his nose, and he just looked at his son from over top of them while still hunched over.
"Uh, could I come in?" he asked timidly.
"Close the door behind you," Draco said, leaning back from his desk to remove his glasses and rub his eyes, his chair tipped back some. He just had a small wooden chair at the moment. What he truly wanted was his father's office chair, from Malfoy Manor. He remembered it like it was some kind of thrown, with green velvet for cushions, and carved black wood with silver worked intricately into it, the family crest above his head, serpents cascading down around him. Draco wished he had that chair so badly, but he doubted the Ministry would ever give it to him, despite the fact it was rightfully his.
Michelangelo spun around to close the door and took his spot, standing before the desk like something in him told him he should. Draco sat there, looking at his son, before placing his glasses back on and looking down at the paper he was still handling.
"I am giving the police the names of the boys you were with," Draco announced firmly, not having to explain to Michelangelo how he knew the names. He would just tell the police that Michelangelo had told him, no need to bring up the mind-reading bit.
"Dad…" he tried to argue.
"Do you have any idea what you are costing me? You are lucky that you are twelve; otherwise you would be going to jail. Do you understand that? Jail. If you were thirteen even, you would be sent to a Muggle juvenile correctional center," he said and Michelangelo bowed his head, the seriousness of his actions already pretty clear to him. "I don't know where you met these boys, or where this loyalty you have towards them stems, but may I ask, without prying, what the bloody hell you were thinking, if you were thinking at all?" Draco asked, not sounding truly angry until the very end.
Michelangelo didn't seem to have an answer for him as he kept his head down, knowing his father would have the answer to any question he wanted without much effort anyways, and lying was futile, and the truth seemed stupid at this point when spoken out loud.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
"Sorry? Sorry is not going to cut it this time, Michael," Draco said firmly. "This isn't just you being a disrespectful and ungrateful little snob, this is you having broken the law," he reprimanded in tones identical to his father's.
"I didn't mean for things to go that far, I broke the bottles and helped move the bumpers, but I didn't touch the cars…"
"You were the first to break a window," Draco pointed out like he had been there to know this.
"I kicked a bit of broken bumper stone and it cracked a windshield, it was an accident. I didn't breakout any of the windows, I was horrified that I had just cracked the one," Michelangelo claimed, pleading for his father to believe him.
"So you snuck out while grounded, to smoke, with boys you met only once before, and caused a little mayhem in a parking lot, but did not break into cars, and you feel this will somehow make me feel better about the situation?" Draco asked.
"No," he mumbled, looking down again.
"I don't know what happened to you, Michael. A year ago you were my son, now…I don't even know you."
"I'm still your son," Michelangelo sobbed, it devastating for him to stand there, being denied that he was even his father's son anymore. He was his father's only son, his first born, his hair, of course he knew him…
"Are you? Last I checked my son was a relatively well-behaved twelve-year-old that had a scrap of commonsense and propriety. He was fun loving and a little shy, snobbish, but only in a way that was mildly endearing. This young man that stands before me," Draco said, holding his hand out before then just shaking his head, words failing him at that point so it seemed as he leg his extended hand fall.
"Please, I made a mistake, it wont happen again," he assured.
"I should certainly hope not," Draco said dryly.
"What do I need to do to make this up to you?"
"Go to bed."
"What?"
"Out of my office, out of my sight, off to bed with you. You are not getting off with a show of tears and saying you are sorry, Michael. Not this time. Go to your room, and you stay there. I need to talk to Ginny, and in the morning, we will discuss this. There is still a hearing, and so we won't know until then what your fate will be," Draco said flatly, Michelangelo sniffing back tears but doing as his father ordered without argument. He wanted his daddy to hug him, and assure him that the hearing would go well, and things would be okay, but he knew he was fooling himself if he expected any sort of comfort after all he had done, not right away, not any time soon at least.
Draco watched his son retreat and stared at the closed door for a long moment before taking his glasses back off and letting his face fall into his hands.
This was a nightmare.
-------------------
Author's Note/Summery:
We went along with Draco and Ron as they worked out at the gym (your welcome) and sadly Draco does still have a sore shoulder that causes him a bit of trouble now and then. That and he is losing weight again. Reamann is back! Well, I'm excited at least. Lucius was Jewish you ask? In every fanfiction I have ever penned he sure was. Don't ask. Ron is a little insecure as it turns out, and Draco has a bit of a sharp tongue, but we knew all that already. Harry is the sucks and Ron really needs to get over Granger and step out of Harry's shadow. Like, seriously, I wasn't just writing that, that really is something that boy NEEDS to do. Draco is going to set him up on a date. Draco = matchmaker? Yeah…let's wait and see how this goes.
Clarissa baking and getting huffy are both precious. Draco loves Peanut Butter. I Wish Ginny would tell Draco that her responsibilities are starting to wear on her. Draco lost his job, he is losing weight, and he is losing faith in humanity one day at a time. Poor guy, and we find out he has Marfan Syndrome. That is a real condition (look it up) I happened to have research into it extensively and have a theory that it is predominant in the magical community, thus why so many people in the HP books are described as having such tall thin features and "long thin fingers"…
Draco doesn't like Hippogriffs. Draco doesn't like Ginny revealing to anyone WHY he doesn't like Hippogriffs. Draco doesn't like Michelangelo getting arrested. Michael certainly found himself in a HEAP of trouble this time. I was a little surprised; I had thought he was in bed until I started writing the scene. I don't really approve of Draco's reaction; his lack-there-of was really upsetting to Michael, as it would be to most any child. In the end Draco is firm with him, like he should be, but still, rather harsh too. He is a little stressed at the moment. Michael is…in trouble at the moment. Moral of the story? Don't sneak out of the house to smoke with a group of adolescent boys you hardly know, commit vehicular vandalism, and get caught when your pop is Draco-frickin'-Malfoy. Yup, that's about it.
PS: Ron and Draco said "tomato" as many times as they did because I just love how the British say it.
PSS: Notice the lack of flashback? I'm not sure how that happened. Poor chapter planning on my part.
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