Fallen Angel

THIS IS THE SEQUEL TO “Blue-eyed Angel” DO NOT READ THIS WITHOUT HAVING FIRST READ THAT!

Fallen Angel

Chapter One

“Why are you here?” the man asked, voice so deep and smooth it was consoling. He spoke slowly, but with a certainty, not like he was trying to be understood, but to imply that his question required a certain amount of consideration. He had one of those voices that made you think and reflect. He could have read out of the phonebook and made it sound insightful and thought provoking.

Draco sat with his arms crossed over his chest in a very pouting gesture, right leg crossed over his left so that his ankle rested on his knee. He was on a leather couch, facing the downy-voiced man, the only other person in the room, and looked rather cantankerous as well as mistrustful. The room was small, and looked like a study; books all around. His couch was a deep red leather dulled from age, the rug was ornate but predominantly burgundy, and the wood in the room was of a cherry finish. All that with the summer light shining in through the partially parted red curtains of the small window, Draco felt like he was trapped in the Gryffindor common room, complete with a carved lion bust on the large desk to his right.

Draco, unwilling to be cooperative, did not ponder on the man's question, not even for a moment, but just answered minimally, bluntly, resisting the man's power of self-reflection.

“My girlfriend wanted me to come,” he said simply, not sounding or looking too friendly or happy with that fact. Draco had a way of glaring that could cause even the fiercest of Manticores to back down with stinging tail between legs, but the man before him seemed unaffected, and that infuriated him to a degree beyond annoyance. This man did not fear him, was not intimidated. He was the first Draco had met in a long while, and normally he would have appreciated the man's forbearance, but today it annoyed him. He wanted to be feared today, for once, and for once, he was not. Oh the irony.

“You do not want to be here?” the man asked, not affected or deterred in any way by Draco's coldness and asking a question that was more of a statement than anything.

“No.”

“Why not? Do you not trust me?”

“I don't trust anyone.”

“You trust your girlfriend,” the man pointed out though posing it a little like a question. He had a way of making questions seem like statements and vice versa. He was playing mind games with Draco, but Draco was smarter than this, he could see through the man's tactics.

“As much as I am willing to trust anyone,” he said, not wanting to be lead into some sort of trap where he would be forced to admit something terribly personal to the man, the stranger.

“And that's more than you trust me, someone that has never done you wrong.”

“Yet,” Draco quipped, letting his jaded nature show through. That was why he was here after all, and the man had a way of drawing out his honest feelings. He supposed, that being the man's job, he would be good at it. For what he was paying, the good doctor better be good at it.

“You don't know me,” the doctor objected smoothly, still not offended, but looking…concerned? He was writing notes down but maintaining very sincere eye-contact. Draco thought he could use that to his advantage at first, until he realized the man was well-trained in Occlumency. Of course.

“I don't have to, humans are all the same.”

“Are you talking to me as a werewolf, or just making a generalized conjecture on the entirety of the human race as a means to prove a point?”

“I do not like being psychoanalyzed,” he barked, glaring at the man.

“Then why come and see me, a psychoanalyst? Why agree to sessions if you do not trust or particularly like the idea of counseling, or me?” the man asked, taking more notes.

“Because my girlfriend asked me to…”

“As you have said already. You do not feel you need therapy?”

“No.”

“You feel you are well-adjusted, content, and sound of mind?”

“You disagreeing?” Draco scathed. He knew everyone thought him mental, one Bludger short of a Quidditch game, that he was not dealing with a full deck of tarot cards, a few Butterbeers short of a six-pack, that he Flooed with a clogged chimney…or whatever. He was aware of himself enough to know he was not the most adjusted of persons, but he was not crazy. If he was, he would know…right? An irritating and persistent little voice in the back of his mind, however, pointed out that to be crazy one cannot realize they are crazy, and it is the total normalcy of their crazy actions that attests to their utter lunacy. That, and hearing voices. The little voice implicated itself then and Draco hushed it up by closing it off with his mental barricades, not about to analyze himself when he was paying the man across from him to do that already.

“Well, looking at what you have written in our letters as to how you are feeling, what I know about you already, and what you have shown thus far, you demonstrate a lot of symptoms of repression, and issues with anger,” the man said so calmly.

“I'm not angry, I'm bitter,” Draco corrected.

“And that's better how?”

“Bitterness and resentment are justified and are an end result of something…anger is just a means of deal with it all.”

“I know you are very intelligent, and intelligent people often reject this kind of help, feeling they don't need someone to point out the obvious to them, to tell them how they are feeling when they already know how they feel,” he said and Draco just looked away, rather than at the notebook where the man was writing, something he had been staring at for the last dozen minutes or so. He wanted to know what the man was writing about him. Was it bad? Was he saying he was hopeless, that he couldn't be helped? Not that Draco wanted the help, but he didn't want to be dismissed as a hopeless case either. He was kind of worried that if the man helped him he would be unable to deny that he is a little barmy any longer, but if the man rejected him, said he was a lost cause, that it would establish more than anything just how mental he is.

There seemed no way out of this office without being written off as mental. Draco's right knee started to bounce slightly.

“But I hope to make a connection with you, Draco. I want to get to know you, and see if I can't help you -well- resolve some of these issues you bear.”

“Issues?”

“I reviewed your file,” he said, not allowing Draco's indignant question stumble him. Draco took a deep breath and held it. “You had a full psychological profile done by the psychiatric ward in St Mungo's upon probation three and a half years ago, when you filed for full custody and legal guardianship of your children,” he said, flipping through the papers inside the hefty file, Draco looking at them, wanting to know what they said exactly. “The results were…saddening.”

“Everyone thinks I'm mental,” Draco growled.

“You are wrong, Draco, very wrong. I do not feel you are mental, not in the least,” he assured.

“Then why do you think I need to be here?”

“You don't have to be a loon to see a therapist, Draco. We are just here to listen, to give advice, to allow our patients to vent out frustrations and explore feelings so they can on their own -with minimal guidance from us- come to realizations, so that they can move on past portions of their lives they had been dwelling on.”

“I do not dwell, I analyze and I move on-”

“No, you deny, then repress,” the man refuted. “Your file says that you suffered from reoccurring and often violent nightmares while in Azkaban-”

“Which is to be expected of anyone that has been there,” Draco snapped.

“And shows you likely suffer from post-traumatic stress,” he pressed on, ignoring Draco, or at least not responding to what he said. He just wrote something down on his notepad.

“That file was made by people who hate me and want to-”

“And paranoia,” the man continued, looking up at Draco over his glasses. Draco was shut up by that for a moment.

“I am not paranoid.”

“Draco, not everyone is out to get you, or to manipulate circumstances so as to ruin your life.”

“That has not been my experience,” Draco grumbled.

“That's why I want you here, I think you need to talk about your experiences, and maybe come to understand why.”

“Why what?”

“Why things happened to you.”

“I know why.”

“You think you know why.”

“Do not try and mess with my head, I can see into everyone's thoughts, I can see their intentions, I know what they are trying to do, I know what you are trying to do,” he accused. “Where people with paranoia think people are thinking bad things about them, I know they are. There's a difference.”

The man sighed and pulled his glasses away from his face.

“Draco, I wanted to get a few sessions in before I brought this up.”

“Brought what up?”

“Your Legilimency.”

“What does me being a Legilimens have to do with anything?” Draco demanded. A Legilimens was a witch or wizard that was skilled in Legilimency and it literally meant “reader” and “mind” in Latin. Draco had learned Occlumency when he was sixteen from his Aunt Bella and had quickly advanced to become a very skilled Occlumens, capable of keeping not only Severus Snape but Lord Voldemort out of his mind. He then, however, graduated to learning Legilimency so as to understand better what everyone's intentions were during all the fighting, and mastered it while in prison for ten years since no wand was required for that particular field of magic. Draco was one of the most skilled Legilimens and Occlumens in the world, definitely in the UK now that Dumbledore, Snape, his aunt Bella, and the Dark Lord were all dead, and it infuriated him that he could not use such a hard-earned skill against the man before him.

“It leads to a lot of issues, but I wanted to first ask you about your family.”

“What about my family? What issues are you talking about?”

“In your family history, is there any occurrence of…”

“What?”

“Schizophrenia?”

“What?” Draco demanded, not shouting but looked insulted.

“You demonstrate a lot of the symptoms…I mean…impairment in your perception of reality, hallucinations, paranoid and bizarre delusions, disorganized speech and thinking, all that has lead to significant social and occupational dysfunction. …”

“I'm not crazy,” Draco growled.

“I know, Draco, I'm not saying you are, but Legilimency is a double-edged sword and often leaves the user prone to certain…disorders.”

“Disorders,” Draco repeated flatly as though amused but it clearly done in a dry and mocking way.

“Draco, I'm not your enemy here. I'm not out to trick you in to exposing anything to be used against you later. This meeting is confidential, and I only wish to help you. Your girlfriend is worried?” he asked.

“She doesn't think I am happy,” Draco grumbled. He was not schizophrenic, those people heard voices, and did crazy shit. Okay, so he heard voices, but he didn't do the crazy shit they suggest…not recently at least.

“Are you happy?” he asked, still writing notes.

“Yes,” Draco said simply, the lie so plain even he could recognize it.

“You are expecting a baby,” he said.

“I know I am.”

“This excite you?”

“Sometimes.”

“An honest answer finally. Very good. Why only sometimes?” the man asked, wishing to move past their little hiccup in their conference. He would visit back with Draco on his concerns about his psyche later, first he wanted to build a bit of trust between them, so Draco would be willing to come back. He knew enough from what he had seen of Draco already in this first hour, that Draco was extremely defensive and if he insulted him (yes, Draco would take being analyzed as a paranoid schizophrenic as insulting) he would not come back, and reject any further help, and he seriously needed it.

“Because sometimes I'm sad, sometimes I feel guilty.”

“Because this baby will be a werewolf, like yourself,” he said and Draco nodded mutely. “And you feel responsible?”

“It's not Ginny's fault,” Draco said, sounding annoyed. He was a werewolf, had been since sixteen when Greyback -on the Dark Lord's orders- attacked and infected him…nearly killed him, actually. Draco's left side of his body and left arm were horribly scarred as a result, thus why he was not a short-sleeve wearing sort of chap despite the summer heat.

“But you can hardly blame yourself either.”

“Then who else is there to blame?” Draco demanded. He had never infected anyone in all the years he had suffered from the condition, but his children inherited it from him. He felt terrible guilt for that, even though his children didn't seem to resent him for it…there was still time. They were still young. He knew, given a few years of being treated like vermin, and facing the sort of bigotry he himself once shelled out, they would grow bitter, and the thought of that broke his heart.

“Must there always be someone to blame, someone to exemplify, to throw your hate at? For someone that has suffered as a scapegoat so that the general magical world would have someone to hate, and blame after the war, you certainly don't seem to have a problem with looking for a scapegoat of your own when faced with all your problems. I think Harry Potter is your favorite, correct?”

“I was thrown into Azkaban for ten years because people wanted a scoundrel to punish since the Dark Lord was dead. My hatred of Harry Potter is non-comparable, he is not innocent of guilt like I was. Potter really is the root of most of my problems.” Draco argued.

“Even your Lycanthropy?”

“If Potter had never had my father thrown into Azkaban, the Dark Lord never would have been so angered as to send Greyback to my home and attack me as punishment for…”

“It never crossed your mind that it is possibly your father's fault he wound up in Azkaban, and not Harry Potters?”

“You saying I should hate my father?” Draco barked, not about to do that. He loved his father, idolized him. He wanted to be as noble and strong as his father had been, but somehow always fell short, disappointing himself, and his father for sure if he were still alive.

“No…Draco, can't you see? You are looking for someone to blame…”

“I am not.”

“You blame and hate yourself, feeling guilt for passing on a deplorable condition onto your children, when it's not fair of you to be so harsh. You did not choose this.”

“Should I hate Greyback? He's dead, I killed him,” Draco snapped defensively, throwing that harsh truth out there. He had kind of, sort of, admitted to Ginny back in January that he hated himself, during one of his emotionally unstable moments when he was lost and unsure what to do and had turned to Ginny for comfort. Telling her such a revealing truth was “great” for their bonding because she felt it showed he trusted her, but it was what got him into all this mess. He had never been that honest with himself, and yet he had blurted all that out to Ginny. It was all evidence to the fact that she made him feel safe, safe enough to divulge such an embarrassing little fact, now she was using that to force him into therapy. Women were evil.

“Draco,” the good doctor sighed. “You can't find someone to blame for every problem in the world. There isn't always someone to blame, and seeking out someone whose actions through a chain result could have caused it, doesn't leave them responsible.”

“If you inadvertently cause another person's death through your own negligence you are guilty of involuntary manslaughter,” Draco pointed out.

“Draco, I see you trying to rationalize the way you view the world, but you have to understand is you are not seeing things rational to begin with.”

“You are fishing.”

“Of course I am, that is what I do, I lour out your feelings. How are you feeling right now?”

“Angry.”

“In your own words, anger is just a means of dealing with other legitimate emotions…so I ask again, how are you feeling?” the doctor asked after having looked down at his notebook and Draco opened his mouth while glaring at the man, infuriated that his own logic was being twisted around and used against him.

“Scared,” he admitted, looking away.

“What are you afraid of?” the doctor asked, voice so smooth and understanding, the voice that induced self-reflection.

-----------------------

“How did your first session with Dr. Valensclaro go? Did you like him?” Ginny asked brightly upon Draco returning home. She never, in her wildest dreams, would have thought she would think of number twelve Grimmauld Place as “home”, but then again, if you had told her a few months ago that she would be with Draco Malfoy, carrying his child, she would have said the same. Oh how much had changed.

“He wanted me to talk about my feelings,” Draco drawled, wiggling his long, thin fingers in the air with that last word for emphasis of his irritation, not greeting his pregnant girlfriend with a kiss like he normally did so she knew he was grumpy and was determined to amend that.

“Did you?” she asked, walking over to him, her belly preceding her a little.

“A little bit.”

“Will you continue to go see him?” she asked, inserting her arms between his and his sides so she could hug him with her belly between them.

“If it makes you happy,” he said.

“I want this to make you happy, that's the whole point of it,” she pouted.

“I already have something that makes me happy,” he replied softly, pulling back a little so as to place his hands on her swollen tummy and smile warmly. His baby had just taken to moving around called “quickening”. He was more excited over this than Ginny, however. If it were his bladder the baby was dancing on while keeping him up for hours at a time at night, he supposed he would be a little less thrilled too. Ginny's morning sickness still hadn't totally eased like Hermione's had either, and she was a little disgruntled about that as well. Apparently that is relatively normal and many women experience it into as late as their seventh month if not the whole way through, but Ginny, with her backaches and swollen ankles, was not comforted by Draco's attempts to tell her she was experiencing things that were to be expected. Ginny had expected herself to be one of those round-jolly-pregnant ladies, and instead she was one of the waddling cranky ones. Even Molly was surprised by that.

“I just worry about you,” she said, leaning against his chest while closing her eyes, hugging him tenderly.

“You shouldn't,” he assured, never wanting to make her worry or fret.

Life had changed, dramatically, in six months. It was June and Ginny was six months pregnant and struggling to hide it still. It was becoming increasingly difficult as she had taken to being quite large very quickly. She was not “huge” by any means, (despite how she went on about it) but she was larger than Hermione who was a whole month ahead of her, and it was unmistakable: Ginny was pregnant. She was past that “fat” stage where one could kind of tell but it could still just be her putting on weight. Ginny had hated that part, not being as thin as she used to be in the first place, and not happy with gaining more. She made a point of hitting Draco frequently for making her fat. He took the abuse well.

The family certainly knew about the pregnancy. There was no way to hide it from them. It had been February when Ginny told Draco, and he hadn't at that point officially -as Ginny's boyfriend- met with her family yet. He had still needed to talk to them about his relationship with their only girl, but then it became so much more than that. Suddenly it wasn't just him telling them “yeah, I love your daughter and I am dating her,” it was “yeah, I love your daughter, and she is moving in with me because I impregnated her.”

Draco could remember that first meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley distinctly. Though that day was long past and the family was considerably more supportive, it still gave him a queasy stomach to rival Ginny's…

“Ginny, I really don't want to tell your parents that we have been dating for just over two months and that you are, incidentally, just over two months pregnant. They hate me enough already without reason, why give them one?” Draco beseeched, following Ginny around his apartment, trying to plead his case as she readied to head out to see her parents.

“Draco, they are going to find out one way or another, sooner or later, and no, they will not be happy, but if you own up to it upfront they will…given time…respect you for it. If you try to hide it they will think you a sneaky, cowardly, creep and be that much more unhappy about this baby,” she said forcefully, not looking at Draco because she knew he had his most piteous “please don't do this to me” face on and she would struggle to say no to him if she looked into those big pouting eyes. He was a manipulative bastard that way.

“They already think I'm cowardly and sneaky and a creep,” he argued, not liking that no amount of pouting was working. This wasn't right, he wasn't getting his way…he didn't know what to do. If this were his mother he would already have his way and be getting ice cream on top of that for having been so upset. What did he have to do, hold his breath until she gave in? He hadn't done that since he was a boy, but it always produced favorable results…he might try it…

“No sense in cementing that opinion in them then,” she said with a “that is that” tone that gave Draco the distinct impression that he had just lost but he wasn't about to give up, not just yet.

“If we tell them about this baby, the topic will undoubtedly focus on me, and what will we tell them, that I'm already a father of two? That will go over well,” he grumbled. Yeah, he was already a father, a father thanks to a different woman. He had a son named Michelangelo, and a daughter named Clarissa. They were very precious to him, and they were twelve and eleven years old. He being thirty meant Michelangelo was born when he was eighteen. Surprise. No one really knew he was a father, he had been in Azkaban at the time of their conception and birth and he was able to keep it on the down-low thanks to the guards being understanding, but he knew he couldn't keep his babies secret forever with everyone abuzz over his and Ginny's relationship, and undoubtedly soon about their child.

“I can't see why not, my parents love kids,” Ginny argued.

“No, they love Weasley kids, not Malfoy kids. They won't like that I was married before anymore than they are with you.”

“It's different for you…your wife passed away, I got divorced. They can't fault you for that,” Ginny argued. She had married Harry Potter after the war. She had been young and sort of pushed into it by everyone just expecting the two of them to be together. She had thought she loved him, and would learn to love him in a way that would give her this overwhelming feeling that she couldn't live without him, but that never came, never happened. Five years of struggling and fights ended in a divorce that her parents had never forgiven her for.

“But they can fault me for being so young, and for marrying my wife because she was pregnant. They are going to think I'm some sort of serial-impregnator.”

“They will not.”

“Will to,” he argued back in a child-like manner. He had met his wife when he was seventeen and fresh to Azkaban. She had been his only cell-block mate and considerably older than him. Because they had fooled around, she had found herself pregnant despite the fact that he had offered her his virginity. It was kind of embarrassing, and it would certainly not cast a kind light on him as far as Ginny's parents were concerned. “And they will ask me if I'm going to marry you now, and they are going to certainly push the idea no matter how much they hate me, because they can't have their baby girl giving birth to a bastard.”

“I'm not about to get bullied into marrying anyone again so don't worry about that. As far as this baby is concerned,” she said, placing her hand on her still inconspicuous stomach. “Call him or her a bastard, but he or she will have a mother and a father, and I won't let my parent's chase you off if you but stop procrastinating and see them with me,” she scolded. Draco knew he was losing, and badly, he had only one last defense.

“But my shoulder is awfully sore,” he started to complain, holding it gingerly as he curled his left arm up against his chest. He had caught a bullet with his left shoulder but a month before, lapsed into a nasty infection, and was only just recently on the up and up, but that didn't stop him from playing up the injury whenever it suited him or the situation.

“Oh, no starting with that again. You won't need your arm to talk to my parents…no, don't look at me like that,” she said firmly, daring to look at him and shaking her head while pointing at him.

Ginny had her coat on, and little pot of Floo Powder in hand already and Draco sighed and accepted defeat. She won…this time.

“Let me throw on something nicer,” he said, moping the whole way to his room to put on a nice pair of black jeans that were rather tight, and a pale blue dress shirt that could not hide how thin he was, tucked or untucked. He was a tad on the emaciated side, but Ginny was seeing to it that he put on some weight. He was still less than a buck-twenty soaking wet, but he was also only five foot eight and some change, so he was just petite all around. His father had been a strapping six feet tall, but Draco resembled more his mother: willowy and pointed. He told himself it was because of the Lycanthropy he contracted when he was sixteen stunting his growth that made him that way, not that he carried more of the Black family traits. He looked a lot like his father, however. He had his eyes, and his jaw…and hairline.

Pulling on his coat, Draco looked more like he was going to work than anything, but he wanted to look nice for Ginny's parents. Maybe it would prevent him from getting hit…too much.

Draco followed after Ginny using Floo. His little Muggle apartment had only recently been added to the Floo Network. He had been exiled from the magical community after his probation from Azkaban, well, technically before…when he was thrown in, but upon release was when it became an issue. His wand had been destroyed, he couldn't do magic, or purchase or obtain potions or potion ingredients, travel by Floo or acquire Portkeys…he had been forced to live like a Muggle for three years but he was now pardoned -thanks to a little heroism on his part, and a few words on Harry Potter's- and he was technically allowed to use magic, but now Draco tended to refrain. He wasn't fully qualified, so he wasn't allowed a wand, so any magic he could do legally would be rather pathetic and seem almost insulting in it limitedness.

Ginny went first, so that Draco Malfoy didn't burst into the Burrow unexpected, and she was already deeply in conversation with her mother by the time Draco spun into view, stepping out of the fireplace to brush soot off his coat. Draco may have been thirteen years isolated from the magical community, but he could recall enough to know the Weasleys really needed to clean their chimney; one shouldn't emerge from the hearth looking like they had been rolling around in the soot pan.

“Oh, so here he is,” said Mrs. Weasley, not exactly being mean, but far from friendly at the same time, her normally joyful round face set hard and serious.

“Hello, ma'm,” Draco said, inclining his head respectively towards the woman, his platinum hair slipping forwards from over his shoulders. It was long, about to the center of his back, so it normally stayed out of his way on its own but for when he leaned forward.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Mr. Weasley said, stepping into the kitchen then, Draco spinning but not too quickly so as to come across as nervous as he was. He smiled, not too confidently so that it became his trademark smirk and he look arrogant, but not so meekly that he looked scared. Maybe he was thinking abut this too much. What would happen if he just relaxed? He would slip into old habits and be condescending and that would get him walloped over the head. Not a good idea. “Ginny wrote us that she would be bringing you over, but that was nearly two weeks ago. We had nearly given up on you,” he said, looking as though he would have liked nothing more than to give up on him and never had him mentioned again. Arthur Weasley had gone bald at some point, but the fact that he was once a redhead was not lost for his eyebrows and full beard were still ginger as were the freckles that dusted his aging skin. Molly Weasley looked much the same she always had: stout and pump. But her red hair had a liberal streak of grey in it, and her face was not as full as it used to be.

“That is entirely my fault, I'm sorry,” Draco said, accepting Mr. Weasley's hand to shake with humble confidence. “With everything that happened these past two months, I had a lot to sort through with my personal and professional life.”

“You couldn't make time for your in-laws?” Mrs. Weasley asked, her indignation showing through.

“Draco and I are not married,” Ginny pointed out.

“By and by,” Mrs. Weasley brushed off, doing so with a wave of her hand in the air. “We had you here for Christmas, and we made such a poor impression on you with the hospitality you were shown that you dreaded coming back?” she asked, it now obvious why she was so affronted. She prided herself in her hospitality and generosity given her meager upbringing. Draco had been invited over for Christmas Draco's apparent refusal to come by again after that seemed to imply that he had detested his first visit.

“No, No ma'm, I enjoyed myself immensely and your hospitality was top notch, as was your cooking, I just…”

“He has been busy, like he said,” Ginny interrupted, giving her mother a look to tell her with no words spoken to not make things difficult.

“Well, let's not just stand here in the kitchen,” Arthur then said, waving his hand for them all to join him in the sitting room. Molly followed and Draco lingered for Ginny's hand to join with his before they moved together to sit with her parents.

There they were, sitting in awkward silence, each waiting for someone else to speak first, all not enjoying themselves but none willing to leave. Draco sat on the couch with Ginny, Molly in her knitting chair by the small fireplace and the tuner, and Arthur in the beaten recliner with the lamp for reading the paper. The Weasleys were considerably older than Draco's mother. His mother had been nineteen when she had him, Ginny had been the last one born to already aging parents. They lived like a very content older couple, and Draco felt very much so out of place in the mismatched sitting room with the three redheads.

“Well,” Ginny said, breaking the silence at last. “This is lovely. I knew it would be since everything went really smoothly at Christmas-”

“Because none of us were aware you and Draco were secretly seeing each other at the time. I suppose that was why you had Reamann invite him,” Molly said, almost a little harsh. Ginny and Draco flushed.

Their cover story was that she and Draco had been seeing each other in secret, with Ginny's then boyfriend Reamann Rossiter in on it as their cover…but the truth was Ginny had had an affair and it was only Draco stopping a bullet meant for Reamann with his shoulder that got the other man to forgive him, slightly, so as to lie for Ginny and deny she had had an affair, so her parents would speak to her again.

“Well, naturally we were worried about your, uh, reaction if you were to find out,” Ginny flustered.

“Well, it was surprising to hear to say the least, and I'm a little hurt that it has taken you this long, Draco, to come to us. It is already halfway into February and everyone learned of yours and Ginny's romance in early January,” Molly said.

“Yes, well,” Ginny cut in, Draco not having said a word since sitting. “Life has been busy for us. You know Draco just acquired number twelve from Harry?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

“Yes, it really is good of Harry to give up such a mass of gold and that house to Draco,” Arthur said curtly, Molly nodding, there being no grater man than Harry in her eyes.

“Well, technically, all that would be Draco's,” Ginny started to say but Molly cut her off.

“Sirius was the last son of Black, and he left his things to Harry, not Draco.”

“Harry feels Draco deserves it more,” Ginny said, trying not to sound heated like her mother but her brow frowning in irritation.

“He would, he is just so good,” Molly gushed, always getting a dreamy twinkle in her eyes when talking about Harry Potter. Draco managed to not gag but had to look away, his eyes certainly not friendly. Harry had given him the Black inheritance out of pity, and out of guilt. He had refused the gold more than once but finally accepted it at Ginny's insistence, her using his children against him: saying they deserved the life the gold would offer them. Draco didn't think Harry was all that “good”, in fact, he knew him not to be all that “good”, but if he wanted the Weasleys to like him, or at least tolerate his presence amongst them, he couldn't let his detestation for The Chosen One be verbalized.

“Don't you agree, Draco?” Molly added, as though knowing Draco's true feelings and daring him to disagree. Draco took a deep breath and held it, looking right at the woman with a kind mask in place, nodding with a very closed-mouth smile. Bugger the woman; she was trying to get him to stumble and say something regrettable.

The conversation carried on much that way for nearly fifteen minutes, Molly and Ginny talking in this sort of false civility that was so obvious that Draco couldn't understand why they were pretending to not be fighting at all. His mother did this, talked curtly and overly politely when she was actually livid, and Draco was shocked to see Molly do the same. Maybe it wasn't an upper crust thing like he had always assumed, maybe it was just a woman thing.

“You don't talk much, do you,” Arthur said to Draco at that moment, having studied Draco in his silence for the last couple of minutes. He took in Draco's pin-thin appearance and knew he was a werewolf and assumed that was the cause behind that, he took in Draco's long sleek hair and assumed he was simply styling himself after his father…for whatever reason, but took in his meek quietness and was unable to understand it. He had not spent more than a handful on minutes in the presence of the boy in the past but could recall him being arrogant, and boastful. If it weren't for the classic and distinctive Malfoy looks, he wouldn't have recognized the man now before him.

Ginny looked to Draco, as did Molly, and Draco looked around to each them quickly, unsure of what he was to say to that. He just hadn't felt there was anything he could say that would add to the conversation so that he may be actively engaged in it. That and he was, actually, rather quiet nowadays.

“Azkaban can do that to a person,” Ginny interjected, saying a lot more than why Draco was rather quiet. She was reminding her father that Draco had spent ten years in that place, as an innocent man no less, and so he had earned a little respect. Even if Draco hadn't been innocent, Azkaban changes people, and that was what she was implying more than anything since she doubted her parents believed Draco was truly innocent…so few did.

The conversation moved on, and on, touching here and there on some personal matters but mostly staying on casual topics of gossip and others' affairs. Harry and Hermione were getting married, once Hermione gave birth that is. Yes, Hermione was pregnant too, only about a month further along that Ginny, and it was Harry's baby. No one had known the two were together until Hermione announced she was pregnant, and yet the family still felt they could cast stones at Draco and Ginny for keeping their relationship on the down-low. Harry had proposed just last week. Now there were months of planning and preparation and Ginny wouldn't have minded the topic of babies and marriage if it didn't strike home so strongly for her and Draco.

“So, you have a new place to stay yet?” Arthur asked his daughter. She had been living with her boyfriend Reamann for a year, but now that they were no longer together, Ginny was looking for a new place. What her family did not know was that she and Draco had been shacking up. Supposedly, Ginny was staying with Tonks and Lupin, the happy couple willing to be Draco and Ginny's cover until they worked up the nerve to tell the family the truth. Draco was thankful that his cousin was so supportive, because without her, he would have had no one.

“Uh, well,” Ginny said, looking at Draco who squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Actually, yes,” she said, sounding rather bright and pleased with herself. She was going to say it, she was going to tell her parents that she was living with Draco and they were going to accept it. She just had to deliver it in a positive way and they would see how happy she is and be happy for her. Draco knew what Ginny was thinking, Legilimency handy in situations like this, and he thought she was mental for believing her parents would be happy. He would hope for furious over ravenous and even then he felt he was being overly optimistic.

“Where? Is it nice?” Molly asked and Draco flushed a little. His apartment was not nice, not even close. It was a rundown old Muggle apartment in the poorest district of London. It was leaky, cold, predominantly burnt orange and olive green colored, and the power went out if more than three appliances and five lights were on, but it was the best he had been able to afford after leaving Azkaban. His apartment was only temporary at this point, now that he had Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He would fix it up and move in there with Ginny…but somehow he didn't think her parents would be elated over that.

“Well, it's a home, you know? Welcoming and warm…with a lot of character,” she said, Draco smiling softly. It wasn't much of a house, but it certainly was a home. He liked that. And “character” was one way of saying it was “old and ugly”.

“Where?” Arthur asked. Ginny and Draco looked at each other, then at her parents and Arthur and Molly, not being dumb people, were able to put two and two together.

“What? No, absolutely not!” she bellowed, Arthur not one to yell but certainly looking more than willing to once his wife was hoarse.

“Mum, Mum, please, I am a grown woman,” Ginny tried to argue over her mother's loud protests, Draco remaining still under Arthur's angry glare.

“You two cannot live together, I will not have it!”

“You were happy to hear Reamann and I were moving in!”

“You two had been dating for two years! We liked Reamann-”

“Meaning you don't like Draco?”

“It is not a matter of my liking or disliking him, it is a matter of reputation! You barely escaped being labeled a tramp just a month ago! Now you will throw away all that you managed to maintain by moving in with, with-”

“Me?” Draco asked, finally speaking for the first time since their introductions, saving Molly from having to come up with a pronoun to use that would likely have been harsh.

“How are you going to provide for her?” Molly demanded and Draco managed to not glare.

“I do not need to be taken care of, mother,” Ginny barked. That was her biggest problem with Harry; he wanted her to be some sort of delicate flower that needed sheltering, his damsel in distress that needed protecting that he could be the shinning knight for. It had driven her mad with his unnecessary valor, driven her away with his desperate need for attention. Draco wasn't like that, he wasn't a knight. He said himself he was more of a dragon: protective and not quite as overbearing and noble to point of idiocy like a courageous knight. He mostly growled and blew a lot of smoke. She adored Draco's sense of humor.

“I am more than capable of providing for her, if that is what you are worried about. I have been on the downs for a while, but I have some gold now, and I have a home I can fix up and live…”

“You mean to take my daughter to that horrible place?” Arthur asked, having spent plenty of time in number twelve and not thinking too highly of it.

“It is my family's home and though it does need work, it is a beautiful house and…”

“I won't have you living with him!” Molly shouted over Draco's soft voice.

“Mother, I do not need your permission, and I would have hoped you would support me in this!”

“Support you? Support you while you date…him?”

“I'm sitting right here,” Draco gripped, this not the first time a Weasley spoke of him in such a derogatory why as he sat right there in their presence, able to hear them.

“Don't say `him' like that. He is a good man, and a good boyfriend!” Ginny barked, coming to Draco's defense. Draco felt a swell of gratitude for that, but guilt at the same time. He didn't want to pin Ginny in the middle and leave her but one choice: him or her family. That wasn't fair. He didn't want her family to fall apart over this, because of him.

“I had hoped you would get over this, this, phase…”

“Phase?”

“This bad-boy phase…not move in with this Malfoy.”

“This is not a phase and he is not a bad-boy! You don't know him! You need to give him a chance, he is a good guy.”

“You are to move in with him, so that means I can no longer humor the idea that you are not sleeping with him?” Molly sniped and Draco and Ginny both looked at her with slightly widened eyes and looked down at their respective laps. Their response was plain enough to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and they both stared for a moment before both shouting, their words milling and overpowering each other so what exactly they were saying was lost but the gist was not hard to grasp, and that was their complete outrage that their daughter has had sex with Draco Malfoy.

Draco sat there, swallowing hard the lump in his throat that just plopped into his queasy stomach and left it unsettled. This was not a promising start into the topic of Ginny being pregnant. If they didn't like that they had done the deed, they won't like the result of that deed any more.

“Mum, Dad, please, STOP!” Ginny yelled, covering her ears but her parents each still going on like a pair of Howler letters about how they had raised her, what was acceptable and what wasn't, and just how despicable the Malfoy family was. Ginny felt her chest clamp up tight as she squeezed her eyes shut, and she wasn't sure if she said it as much as screamed it, but “I'm pregnant,” blurted out of her and the words were able to stop the Weasleys instantly.

Ginny took advantage of the momentary silence, the only chance she feared she would get to explain.

“I'm pregnant. About two months along,” she confessed and Draco sat still as a rabbit in the sights of a predator as Arthur rounded his eyes on him. “I'm moving in with Draco, and I'm going to help him with restoring Grimmauld Place, to prepare for the baby,” she said, now waiting for the real fallout to begin. When shouting didn't commence immediately, she looked up from her lap where her hands were balled up in the material of her skirt, and she was able to take the horror of her mother's face in, and the anger of her father's.

“Dad, please,” Ginny begged but Arthur stood very quickly and Draco winced as the man's arm lunged at him. Draco was not hit, however, like he was expecting, Arthur grabbing his shirt by the shoulder and collar and pulling Draco standing very roughly.

“Arthur,” Molly called, though not as though she was concerned over Draco's welfare. Ginny was doing that enough for the both of them.

“Dad, stop!” Ginny yelled as Arthur dragged Draco by the shirt and tossed him out onto the back porch. Draco didn't have anything to say, and wasn't given a chance even if he did because Arthur slammed the door on him immediately as Draco stumbled to not fall.

“Dad!”

“You can't be, you need to see a Healer and…”

“I already did. I went to see Hermione,” she said, Hermione being a head Healer at St. Mungo's and someone she trusted to guard this secret. “I took the test, and it is positive.”

“No…I mean, surely the baby is Reamann's,” Molly said, almost begging it to be so. Ginny looked at her mother and shook her head, feeling like she was about to cry. She wasn't crying for the shame of it all, she wasn't crying because her parents were furious, she was crying because they hated Draco so much.

“Ginny,” Arthur said, looking at his daughter.

“Please, this is your first time meeting Draco; don't let it be like this. He isn't going anywhere, not now, not with a baby on the way. You could have tried to bully him and me apart if that weren't so, but it is, it is so, I am pregnant. He is determined to be here, for me, and this baby, even if you don't approve, but he is afraid of you…and knows just how important my family is to me and doesn't want to ruin that. You have him feeling terrible because he thinks he has put me in the position to choose between him and you.”

Arthur looked furious, and torn between scolding his daughter, choking the life out of Draco for having touched her, and comforting his little girl for having made her feel like the family was rejecting her. That was something Weasleys didn't do. They were not like that, they were not like the Blacks, or the Malfoys, rejecting their relations that strayed from what they felt was “acceptable marrying material.” Andromeda Black, Draco's aunt, had married a Muggle-born Wizard and was disowned from the family as a result. How could he, and his family, look down on such a thing while doing basically the same? Arthur sighed at his own hypocrisy. He opened the door and stepped out without a word, leaving Molly and Ginny to try and talk things through while he confronted the werewolf that he had just tossed out of his house.

Draco, upon hearing the door open, turned and paled when he saw that it was Arthur stepping out.

“Mr. Weasley, please, don't…” he attempted to say but Arthur holding his hand up to cut Draco off caused him to flinch like he was expecting to be hit and that stopped Arthur for a moment. Draco slowly looked back up at the man after the hit didn't come and Arthur took a deep cleansing breath before speaking.

“Draco,” he said, looking right at him. “You must forgive my, uh, initial reaction. This was not very fair of me,” he said and Draco blinked at him.

“Wait, are you apologizing? To me?” Draco asked, looking shocked. He had been expecting, been preparing, to do a lot of apologizing himself, not have them directed towards him.

“Just answer me this,” he said, Draco nodding, ready to comply if that meant he wasn't about to be beaten. Things were looking on the up and up in his opinion. “When?” he asked and Draco knew exactly what he meant.

“Mr. Weasley,” Draco muttered, his cheeks a little pink but excusable because of the cold. He was shivering since it was February and he was out without a coat or cloak on.

“No, I need to know this. Has it not crossed you mind that the baby might not be yours?” he asked and Draco sighed. It was true, Ginny had dated him at the same time as someone else…Draco had been her “other man”, but he and Ginny had already discussed this at length and had used a spell to try and pinpoint to time of conception, Ginny refusing a paternity spell feeling it was degrading.

“Yes, it has,” he said softly while looking down at the porch under his feet.

“Well?”

“It is mine. The date of conception lines up, and Ginny said she had not…uh…shared her bed, so to speak, with Reamann for weeks before.”

“So?” he asked, still waiting to hear when this had happened. He couldn't explain why he wanted to know so bad since knowing wasn't about to change anything, or make him feel better, but he had to know.

“Mr. Weasley, you don't really want to know, she is your daughter for God's sake, I mean…” Arthur just gave Draco a stern look and Draco sighed, giving in. He couldn't fight the man on this and expect things to go smoothly. “Christmas,” he said, stuffing his fingertips in his jeans pockets since they were too tight to fit his whole hand in.

“Christmas? Ginny spent Christmas here, with the family, and you…came here…” Arthur said before trailing off upon seeing Draco's burning blush. “Oh Merlin,” Arthur said, covering his eyes with one hand like a slap to the forehead.

“I'm sorry,” Draco muttered, not sure exactly he was apologizing for, the having sex with the man's daughter, or doing it while at the man's house on Christmas no less, or knocking her up at that same point, or just not wearing the condom properly…or all of the above. Whatever it was he was apologizing for wasn't important, it just seemed like the thing to say.

“So you and Ginny are moving in together, because she is, is pregnant,” he said, not making it a question really but Draco nodding regardless. “Oh Merlin help me,” he moaned, turning around in place so as not to face Draco for a moment.

“You have to understand, I love your daughter.”

“Truly?”

“Deeply,” Draco said with sincerity. “I meant what I said inside; I can take care of her, and the baby. I am not as well-off as some, but I am not as poor either. I took the Black Family gold so I can offer her a comfortable life, and a home,” he said, wishing the man would look at him.

“You just have to understand, she is this family's `little girl' and always will be. I know there is an unfair standard placed on her that was not with the boys, that we want her to remain innocent and untouched forever…but knowing my girl is a woman doesn't mean I like this, this, situation. Pregnant and unmarried is not how any father wants to see his little girl,” he explained and Draco nodded, knowing exactly what Arthur was saying. Draco had expected quite a beating because he knew any boy that put his hands on his little girl was never going to get them back. He didn't know what he would do if one day his little Clarissa, with the wildly curling blonde hair and big blue eyes, came to him and told him she was pregnant with her new boyfriend's baby. Draco understood Arthur's outrage, and hurt, but he couldn't excuse it forever because he couldn't undo what was done.

“I can't marry Ginny,” Draco said, Arthur looking at him finally. “I know that is what your family expects, and probably demands,” he said, not daring to say “wants” because what the family “wanted” was for Ginny to not be pregnant and dating Draco Malfoy, “But Ginny and I agreed already, having talked about it in long length, that it would not be good for our still developing relationship to have marriage forced upon us, again,” he said, adding that last bit quickly.

“She has never been forced…” Arthur tried to argue but Draco just looked at him and the man sighed. “She and Harry were in love, and they would have made a good match, things were just…not the same…after the war.”

“She felt pushed, and she resented it. She felt pushed into marrying Reamann, and we can all see how that turned out. She just wants an opportunity to make her own decisions, in her own time,” he explained.

“And what of you?” Arthur asked.

“What of me?” Draco responded, not sure he wanted to be all honest and open anymore now that the topic was focused on him specifically.

“Do you want to marry her?” he asked, eyeing the thin man intently. Draco looked away for a moment to collect his thoughts before answering.

“I asked her,” he admitted and Arthur looked surprised. “When she told me about…the baby…I offered to marry her. It wasn't a proposal, not really, but an offer, and she declined. That's when we talked, and we see eye to eye on this. We are content with dating, and living together, and raising this child.”

“You sound like you are not fond of marriage either,” Arthur said, like he knew more than he was letting on, but Draco knew, because he could see Arthur's thoughts, that he was fishing. Draco knew this would all come out eventually, so hiding it wouldn't reflect well on him, but he didn't want to stand out in the cold and recite his pathetic life's story to the man. Still, if it got him to understand his feelings on the matter and thus his decision…

“Marriage is something you have to be ready for. Ginny wasn't ready for it when it happened to her, and neither was I,” he confessed.

“You have been married before?” Arthur asked, managing to keep the surprise out of his voice very well.

“And a father too,” he said and Arthur blinked. “I have two children at home already, from my first marriage.”

“Two?” Arthur repeated, eyes gone a little wide.

“I am trying to keep that bit of information about my fatherhood on the down-low for the moment, but I am telling you about it because I want you to trust me. I want you to know that I am okay with you knowing the truth, knowing that I am a father…a good father if I do say so myself…and I will do whatever I have to, to make sure my third child is raised in the most loving home possible.”

“Two?” Arthur repeated again, Draco managing to smile in a slightly amused way at the man's shock and maybe with a little bit of pride as his chest started to puff out just a little with his accomplishment.

“Yes, two…a boy and a girl, Michelangelo and Clarissa.”

“What of their mother?”

“She died,” Draco said and Arthur recoiled just a touch. “Nine years ago,” he added and Arthur looked a little sympathetic.

“I'm sorry,” he said,

“Why? It's not your fault,” he brushed off.

“No, I meant…”

“I know what you meant. Thank you, really,” he said, not wanting to dwell on the matter for long.

“How old are your two then, if your wife passed away nine years ago?” he asked and Draco inwardly grumbled. Why does everyone say “passed away” instead of “died”? Like one way of phrasing it made it easier, less painful? His wife was dead, she was murdered by two men that had strangled her and beat her past the point of recognition. “Passed away” did not cover it. Draco did not say this though; he just answered the man's question.

“Michael is twelve and Claire is eleven,” he owned up, knowing what was next.

“So you were eighteen when…”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“It is rather chilly,” Draco commented then, shivering quite violently at that point.

“Oh, right, I bet you are cold.”

“A touch,” Draco admitted, jaw now chattering. “Would it be too much to ask to be invited back in? I know I am not held in the most favorable esteem at the moment, but…”

“Yes, you can come in,” Arthur sighed, opening the door behind him and stepping in, waiting for Draco to follow.

There they were again, all sitting in that little room together like before, though this time -if possible- the tension was greater. Draco and Ginny sat on the couch, their hands clasped together like the Jaws of Life, Arthur silent since bringing Draco back in, and Molly still sobbing periodically into her handkerchief.

He knew he couldn't hate Draco for what he and Ginny had done because he had accepted Harry and Hermione's pregnancy with open arms, relatively speaking. Harry was only his son because he had once been married to his daughter, but Ginny was his girl, always was, and always would be. Molly knew that too, and despite her sobbing, he knew she would eventually be excited over this baby as much as she was already over Hermione's.

Molly was trying to be fair to the boy…man…that she barely knew, but it was so difficult to erase that image she had of him from years ago. His hurtful words, his disrespectful arrogance…now her daughter was with child, his child…it was a lot to take in all at once.

Draco was relieved that Ginny's parents now knew, after all that was said and done. Unfortunately, his mother still didn't know, and he feared her more than the Dark Lord himself given the nature of this matter. She had not handled the news of him becoming a daddy in the past well, and he doubted, given how much she objected to him seeing Ginny in the first place, and how upset she had been over learning they simply had had sex, that she would be anything less that furious that he was about to make his brood three.

Draco shook his head, back at the present with Ginny.

“So?” she prompted.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, blinking a few times. Ginny sighed, knowing Draco missed her question because he had been caught up in one of his memories again.

“That's my point exactly, Draco. You missed entirely what I said because your mind had wandered off, as involuntarily as it may be, to remember. Was it a bad memory again?”

“No,” he said, talking rather subdued.

“I had asked you if you were going to stick with this doctor. It is obvious that you need-”

“Need what?” he cut off a little harshly.

“Need to see someone and talk about this. This trip down memory lane might not have been a bad one, but they often are, and they are frequent. Waking up with you in a panic from some nightmare, or watching you phase in and out of your day in these memories is not…healthy.”

“It's how I am, I don't see why you have to keep trying to change me,” he protested.

“Draco, this is not some bad habit I am trying to get you to kick,”

“Like my smoking…”

“Or me trying to get you to eat more, this is serious. I can't spend all my time worrying about you, when we will soon have a baby here demanding all my attention.”

Draco narrowed his eyes but then surrendered. He was not about to make a row out of this, not if the answer to Ginny's question was what she wanted to hear in the first place.

“Yes, I will continue to see the good doctor,” he said, turning away but then stopped when Ginny hooked her arms under his to hug him around the middle from behind.

“I am glad of it,” she said softly.

“I know you are.”

“I know you are only going to make me happy,” she then said, or maybe accused.

“Is it that obvious?” he smirked, though Ginny could not see it.

“You have to want to get better, you know, otherwise no amount of talking to that man is going to help.”

“I do want to get healthy.”

“But only for me,” she sighed.

“Is it wrong to want to make you happy?”

“Ever consider doing something just to make yourself happy?”

“I started seeing you,” he offered and Ginny laughed into his back.

“Fair enough.”

“Though, you do drive me up the wall,” he added and she pinched him. “Ow!”

“So,” Ginny said conversationally, pulling apart but grabbing Draco by the back of his shirt to keep him from wondering away, forcing him to linger there with her a little longer. Draco turned to her at that point as she held him so he could see her over his shoulder. “When will you be seeing him next?” she asked.

“Next Friday.”

“A week?” she asked, a little surprised.

“Yes, a week,” he said flatly.

“Why wait so long?”

“Because I wouldn't be able to withstand more of that man, and the amount of gold I'm shelling out to see him each visit is reason enough to keep my appointments to a minimum.”

“Harry went to him three times a week,” she said, knowing that Draco was just as much, if not more, messed up than Harry. The war had done that to a lot of those caught up in the fighting. Harry was better now than when he was when she and him had been married (those had been rough times) but Draco had spent ten years in prison rather than therapy, so he got progressively worse, and she felt bad for him, which was something Draco hated. She tried to make this “therapy idea” out to be just something she felt would help him rid himself of his persistent nightmares, not save her from having to see him curled up and crying softly to himself while rocking in the middle of the night. It was heartbreaking.

“Harry was using my gold to pay the man,” Draco grumbled. His family's gold and property was confiscated as “retribution” payment for war crimes. The house and all inside it couldn't be touched because of ancient family wards placed on it centuries ago by his ancestors so that nothing could be removed from the property but by a Malfoy, or through a Malfoy's true consent, but all the wealth they had kept in Gringott was taken and divided up. Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys all got a hefty chunk of it, for their services to the Ministry via the Order during the war, and the rest of it went to rebuilding devastated areas like the Ministry itself, Hogwarts, and even building a grand magical library named after Albus Dumbledore in the man's honor and memory, that being almost a slap to the face of Draco. Draco, though now pardoned of “wrongdoing” in the war thanks to Harry finally sorting that business out, did not get his family's belongings reinstated to him. The Ministry could not hope to pay back all the money they had taken because it was all long spent, and to give the house back would be too great a blow to their pride for having been wrong, so they wrote it off as payment for Lucius' grievances, not Draco's, and all were satisfied with that…but for Draco, who was left poor and insulted. Harry and many others had been living quite comfortably off his money for years, and knowing while he was rotting in jail, Harry was using his gold to see a therapist to get all happy and feel better about backstabbing him, did not make Draco a happy werewolf.

“Draco, please don't,” Ginny begged, already having sat through this particular rant and temper tantrum of Draco's in the past, more times than she cared to count. Having lived with Draco for the last five months had taught her a lot about him, one thing being he had a nasty temper…something she had known about but had not fully appreciated until having witnessed it. He wasn't violent towards anything but furniture (he tended to throw things), and he didn't yell as much as rant in harsh tones, but she didn't want to listen to him go on about how much he hated Harry Potter again. It hurt her feelings (even though she never said anything to him about it) because she still cared about Harry, a lot. She was kind of stuck between the two men. She loved the one deeply, but cared for the other despite everything, and she couldn't cut either out of her life, both having a permanent tie to her. Each had wronged the other, and neither was willing to forgive and forget which made it difficult for her. She knew Draco was….justified…in his anger, but that wasn't enough to excuse his sometimes overly harsh words or tantrums that left things broken. She new Harry felt bad, but was angry at Draco's refusal to make amends, and though that was understandable because she knew how hard Harry had tried to make things right, she couldn't excuse his tempter, or drinking, either. Both boys were wearing on her, and honestly, if she didn't love each of them, she would say to hell with the both of them.

Ginny, having a piece of the Malfoy fortune in her own bank account from one of the Ministry's payoffs, had surrendered the money to Draco, but he (after the fact) seemed to feel guilty at that, like he had forced her to give up a sizable chunk of her hoard to comfort his wounded ego.

Draco looked at Ginny and sighed, knowing he was often unfair to her, and with her pregnant he didn't even offer the option of running away from him. She was surprisingly tolerant of him, and he respected her for it because he knew he wouldn't be able to put up with someone like himself. Her patience with him was sizable, but not limitless, however.

Ginny knew what he was thinking, even without being a Legilimens like him, and she wanted to shake him. He was back to thinking he was an “affliction” again, like she deserved someone better than him, that she would be better off if she could but run from him, and she knew she had Harry to thank for that. Draco had been all about the self-loathing for a long time, but Harry trying to get Draco to stop seeing her last January by telling him that he is an affliction and that he would ruin her life being with her, had compounded the problem considerably. Draco and Harry, they seemed determined to ruin each other's lives! It was enough to drive anyone…crazy. Never call Draco crazy to his face, or think it in his presence, however, lest you enjoy the sight of him flipping out. That was something she learned early on but found hard to avoid with all the “therapy” talk that had been going on for the last few weeks. Draco was only just now speaking to her again after there latest row.

“I will see him once a week, to start with, on Fridays like I used to my parole witch. I just need to get used to the idea, and the man, and maybe…if I feel like I can open up more and trust the man…I will see him more. As it is, with Michelangelo coming home tomorrow, and us all working on number twelve, and the final move…there is a lot to be done.”

“I know,” she said, smiling softly, happy to know Draco was being so compromising with her, something he was no good at. He often wanted his way, no ifs ands or butts, and as a single father that had worked well, but now with this democracy Ginny had brought with her into his house, he was feeling rather dethroned. He had always had his mother there to rule him, but somehow Ginny worked differently so she was not filling Narcissa's role, but creating a whole new one, and Draco struggled to not feel smothered by the two women trying to be his number one and partner. He loved his mother, but he couldn't tell her to step back some after all she had done for him, and he loved Ginny, but she could be as stubborn as him. From everything like room arrangements and home decor, to baby names and future house sortings at Hogwarts, they disagreed. Ginny wanted a little red-haired-Gryffindor-boy to carry on her family tradition, Draco felt there were more than enough red-haired-Gryffindor-Weasleys in the world already and he wanted a little platinum-Slytherin-Malfoy to follow in his footsteps. Did he mention he wanted a girl?

It was a good thing they loved each other so much, because sometimes they couldn't barley stand each other, let alone agree.

“Where is Clarissa?” he asked, wondering why his little wild-haired daughter hadn't come bursting into the room yet to greet him with a million “I love you”s. It was the third week into the month and the Hogwarts school year and Clarissa's Muggle Primary School's year were out.

“She is with your mother,” Ginny said, reaching up behind her head to pull her hair away from her neck and twist it up so it was off her shoulders in the heat. June had come in warm but was going out hot. She struggled to remain comfortable; something being pregnant seemed to deny her on principle alone but the heat compounded. Her skin was shining with sweat and she felt claustrophobic with the weight of the air itself. Hiding still the fact that she was pregnant didn't help her either. It was much too hot for cloaks, or even robes, and ponchos, and whatever else she used as a means of concealing her ever-expanding tummy. Draco liked Ginny's poncho, he said it wasn't the sexiest thing ever, but it made her look round and motherly. Ginny hadn't spoken to him for three days for having called her “round”.

Draco smirked down at Ginny, the woman that was all his, and took in her half-dressed appearance. She was barefoot and plain, in a sort of white cotton sundress thing that draped from her pregnant belly but clung to those wonderfully full breasts of hers. They were alone. He could think of a hundred things he needed to do before Michelangelo got home, but there was only one thing he wanted to do at the moment. Ginny, able to feel Draco's eyes on sweaty skin, looked at him and laughed, unable to imagine how he could still find her so alluring when she had put on nearly forty pounds so far and had a belly out to here.

Draco didn't care, it was hot, a perfect excuse to get naked if he ever heard one.

--------------------------

“Daddy!” Clarissa squealed with glee as Draco came into view. He had a towel draped over his head and shoulders still, from the shower he had taken -with Ginny- and he was dressed in jeans and a green t-shirt. No socks or shoes, yet, skin still a little wet so that his shirt clung. He had put on weight, he was still skinny, but not quite in the concave sort of way that he was before. He could be called “skinny” now rather than “emaciated” like before, and he kind of liked that, mostly because it meant his pants stayed up. He joked in a mock insulted way that it was his pregnancy weight to any of the family that remarked on it.

“Hey, sweet pea,” he said, allowing her to latch onto his hip and hug him like she hadn't seen him in not hours, but years. “How was your last day?” he asked.

“Sad, I am going to miss my friends, but they said they would write,” she said, looking a whole lot happier than she sounded. It was the last day before summer, but Clarissa wouldn't be returning to that school in the fall. Not only were they moving across London and therefore a different school district, but Clarissa was going to start Hogwarts this year. Her moving was the perfect cover for her Muggle friends that she had made, but it was still tricky.

“If you owl all your letters home to me first I can forward them by Muggle post to them,” he said reassuringly and Clarissa squealed again in excitement.

“I can't believe it! I am finally going to Hogwarts! Michael will be home tomorrow and he can tell me all about it in person, though he has written to me plenty about it. It sounds so amazing! When do I get my wand?” she asked, her tone suddenly shifting to be a little demanding.

“Hold the horses,” Draco laughed, his mother stepping out of the kitchen then where she had entered right away after coming home to pour herself the bourbon she was now clutching in her thin hand as she crossed arms and leaned. “First we need to receive your acceptance letter, and then we have the whole summer to get what you need,” he said, understanding his daughter's excitement. He had been excited to get his letter too.

“Like there is any doubt I am accepted?” Clarissa said confidently, pulling away from her father to stand there arrogantly. Draco had no idea where she got it from. Clarissa was right to assume she would make it in, however, based off her already blossoming magical prowess. She had been displaying magical talents since she was four, Michelangelo since he was eight, but Draco still needed to go an extra mile to get his children accepted into the school that other parents didn't. Names of magical children were written down at birth in a large book by a magical quill, letters then sent out after their eleventh birthdays. Though his children's names were undoubtedly recorded, his children were werewolves and he had to make arrangements with the Head Master: Minerva McGonagall, so that his children could dorm there safely.

There was also the matter of Clarissa being the first to attend as a Malfoy and not McGucken which was their mother's maiden name. It had not been easy for Michelangelo to be halfway through his school year, in his first year there, with new friends and an unfamiliar setting, and to be exposed as the bastard son of the dreaded Death Eater werewolf Draco Malfoy. Apparently that hadn't made things easy for him, and Draco felt terrible for that. Clarissa would be going in there as a Malfoy, so though it would be hard, it would be different because she wouldn't have friends to then lose. Draco wished he could go back in time and make it so Witch Weekly never got those pictures, and ran that article about him having children, but it was one of those inevitable things that he supposed had to happen, so that his life could move on unhindered by the dread of his secret being exposed and the weight of the responsibility to guard his children in such a way, and now that it was known he could dedicate his time to making things better, or as best as he could, for them.

“Yeah-yeah. I bet they will tell you that you are not magical enough to attend,” he teased and Clarissa huffed up, face pink.

“They will not!” she stomped.

“If you do manage to make it, you will surely land in Hufflepuff,” he said and Clarissa looked irate.

“Angel, don't be mean now,” Narcissa interjected as she sipped her bourbon, calling Draco by his middle name as always, that being her affectionate pet-name for him since he were small. The Dark Lord was the one that had actually named him “Draco” and though it was a strong name, and she didn't necessarily hate it, she still preferred the name she was to give him. Draco didn't mind it, so long as she didn't use it in public. “Draco” was one thing, but “Angel”? That was a little rougher to have to deal with. Might as well have named him “Ashley” like his mother had considered, just to guarantee that he would have been strung up the Quidditch goal-hoops by his knickers at Hogwarts.

Ginny strolled in at that moment and Clarissa took to hugging her then, and kissing her tummy, Clarissa (even when compared to Draco) was by far the most excited about this baby. She was going to be a big sister, and she was reveling in the fact.

“You coming with us to get Michael in the morning?” Ginny asked and Clarissa looked up at her with those pale-silver-blue eyes.

“Yes!”

“Then we best be off to bed early,” she said, Clarissa not looking to excited over that part, but complying after appealing to her father but him just nodding in agreement with Ginny.

“Michael and Phinnaeus will be home tomorrow, which means there will be a long full day with the Weasleys tomorrow,” Draco said. Phinnaeus was Bill's and Fleur's oldest son. He was the same age as Michael and the first Weasley of the new generation to attend Hogwarts. There would be a steady stream of them for the next twenty years, however, given how many sons and the handful of daughters the Weasley brothers had amassed over the last fourteen years. Bill and Fleur had gotten married, and eight months later had Phinn. It didn't take a genius to figure out that that didn't figure out, but no one said anything. Ginny had already pointed out that her parent's anniversary was in April, after they eloped (according to them because they were “young” and the war had everyone spooked) and Bill was born November 29^th of that same year. Yeah, Draco didn't feel any one of the Weasleys had any right to cast stones at him for sleeping with Ginny out of marriage, let alone getting her pregnant. The only difference being he didn't run off and marry her right away. What could he say; he had learned the value of resisting peer pressure.

Draco and Ginny crawled into bed together, this being the last night they would sleep in this apartment. Number twelve was still unfinished, but they were only waiting to fully move in for Michelangelo to come home. Draco spooned himself up against Ginny's back despite the heat so he could hold her, and her stomach as he burred his nose in her still slightly damp hair to take in her scent that was like her strawberry shampoo and still smelled of her natural sweat. He was a werewolf, that scent of hers was important to him, it was comforting.

“I love you,” he whispered into her scalp, feeling a slight shift in Ginny's round tummy as the baby seemed to get comfortable for the night.

“I love you more,” she mumbled since she was nearly asleep already.

---------------------------

Author's Note:

Hazah! I have gotten the sequel up and running! I hate writing sequels only because I hate having to reintroduce everything I established in the first story(ies). I don't want to make it a complete summery of the first story but I don't want it to leave readers wondering “wtf?” either, so forgive me if this chapter seemed redundant.

So now it is June, Ginny is six months pregnant, Draco is moving into Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and Michelangelo is on his way home from Hogwarts for the summer. All seems well enough. Draco is in therapy now, just like I promised he would be. It will not be the focal point of this fic, but it will play a crucial role, and it will give me an excuse to explore more of Draco so we can all discover why the poor thing is SO bitter. (I know why…hehehe)

Yes, there will be more flashbacks in this fic, like the first one, so if you liked that about Blue-eyed Angel, lucky you. If you hated it, too damn bad. There will be a few memories from the war that I have left over that I could not fit into the first fic, but most of them will be of Draco's time in Azkaban and such. So does that mean we get to see his mysterious wife? Sure does! Not sure how much you will like her. Hmmm.

The line up from the first fic is back, along with Reamann, so don't worry about missing anyone. This fic will be long like all my writing, and it has light and dark moments, but I'm not sure of the balance yet…just be warned: ANGST is on the horizon! Arr!

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Fallen Angel

Chapter 02

Draco and Ginny woke early, Ginny running to the bathroom before Draco was even fully aware of himself. She was either going to be sick, or she had to pee again. Draco, for the life of him, did not envy women. He was a bloke, and he was glad to be one, so glad in fact that if he had been born a girl, he would have seen to it that he was a male by now. He respected what Ginny was going through as best he could, but she would only allow so much of his sympathies before she would just start shouting at him that he had “no idea, no bloody idea!” what it was like or what she was going through, so he had stopped trying. That didn't stop him, however, from reading every parenting book out there. He was a father already, but that didn't mean he had a clue what he was doing or what to expect. He wasn't sure what he was getting himself into, but with Ginny there, and his mother, and hopefully the Weasleys, he was sure between them all it would get done.

Stretching, Draco lingered, needing to use the bathroom before dressing but having to wait on Ginny. He supposed the best he could do for her, while she went through all the hormonal mayhem, was not to complain about it. So she yelled at him a lot, and took up the bathroom for an hour at a time, and complained. He was known to be a complainer himself, he spent more time than the average man preening in the bathroom, and he might not be hormonal, but he was a werewolf, so he knew what having a bad time of the month was like.

Did it make Draco a bad father because a very small part of him was a little sad Michelangelo was coming home because that meant that opportunities for sex with Ginny would be fewer and farther between? Clarissa slept like a log, but Michelangelo was like a leaf. He woke up at the smallest of sounds. Clarissa being home never stopped Draco and Ginny form getting close, but Michelangelo would never allow it. Draco had thought he could get Michelangelo to be more accepting of Ginny by now, after six months, but nothing seemed to work, not even being the first to be told about the baby was enough. He knew his son was not about to make this summer easy.

Draco remembered that conversation. Before the world knew he had two children already, he had to tell his eldest that he was to be a daddy…again.

“Hello,” Draco greeted, Minerva McGonagall approaching, apparently on her lonesome.

“You know, there are no rules against students receiving visits from their parents, on school grounds,” she said, sounding annoyed as she joined Draco at his table in the Hogshead, in Hogsmeade.

“I have not stepped foot in that school in fourteen years, and I'm not about to now. I know it is a lot to ask of you, to take time out of your busy Saturday to escort my beloved son down here, after you betrayed me and left me to rot in Azkaban and all…but hey, let's just say I owe you for this,” he said with a very pleasant tone and a smile that was not pleasant at all given the harshness of his eyes and the cruel undertones of what he was saying. Minerva had believed Draco had turned traitor in the last battle and that he had only proclaimed innocence as a means of avoiding incarceration. She did not know until months after the fact that what he had said was true and that she had, basically, promised him a pardon as payment for his redemption and services to the Order at his own great personal risk, and reneged on it.

Draco, like he had just said, had not entered the Hogwarts grounds since that night in the lightning struck tower where Dumbledore had fallen (literally), and he was not about to do so now. Minerva owed him, and he was going to exploit that.

“Fine, fine!” Minerva growled, ordering herself a drink.

“So, where is he?” Draco asked, seeing Minerva making herself comfortable but his son was still nowhere in sight.

“He said he needed to use the restroom,” she said, accepting her drink that just magically (literally) appeared on the table before her.

“What are you doing?” he asked in bored tones as he eyed her.

“What do you mean?”

“Don't just sit here like you will be a part of this conversation, shoo,” he said, waving his fingers at her in a shooing motion.

“I am his escort, I will be remaining with him-”

“I appreciate your concern, I really do-not…but I am his father and am more than capable of watching over him and see to it no harm comes to him myself. I shall call for you when your services are needed again to see him safely back to the castle.”

“Draco, don't you dare sit here and…” she said but Draco looked like he was not going to have any of it.

“Fine, do what you like, you will anyways, no matter what any of us say,” she snapped, standing and dropping a gold coin on the table for her drink. “I don't know what to say since `I'm sorry' doesn't seem to be enough for you.”

“You're right, it isn't. Now be gone from me,” he said in manner he once used for servants and House-elves, drawing much satisfaction from dismissing the woman like a substandard.

McGonagall was barely out the door when Michelangelo appeared timidly behind Draco, as though hiding from sight.

“Is she gone?” he asked.

“Yes,” Draco answered.

“Thank God, that woman drives me mental. Having the ghosts stalk me, the paintings keeping tabs. She is always cornering me in the passages, asking if I need anything, if my secret is still safe, if I need more Wolfsbane. I swear, she is more uptight than you and Nana combined,” he exclaimed in his drawling smooth voice that he had inherited from his daddy. In fact, he looked just like his daddy when he was that age. He had that same pointed face and heavy-lidded eyes that actually took work to make look friendly rather than harsh as they always seemed to be set at a glare. His skin was like warm milk and hair like spun sunlight. He was thin and kind of small for his age, just like Draco had been. As much as he looked like his father, smirk and all, there were still plenty of traits in him thanks to his mother. The most notable were all the curls. Michelangelo's head was a mass of tightly sprung ringlets. Their length alone and thus weight was what kept them from sticking up too much. They hung down across his forehead and in his eyes, over his ears and down the back of his neck. A more subtle characteristic he had inherited from his mother was freckles. Both he and his sister had them. No Malfoy had ever had freckles, and the Blacks certainly didn't have much of a predisposition for them, but they dusted the nose and cheeks of both Draco's children, helping them look less like living-porcelain dolls and more like adorable little cherub children. The freckles were most certainly misleading.

“You have me to thank for that, some what. I did ask her to look after you, but a lot of her overbearing attention is her trying to compensate for the guilt she carries and feels still.”

“You still haven't forgiven her?”

“Maybe, but I can't clue her into that, or I won't get anymore favors out of her and I won't be able to visit you like this,” Draco said with a smirk, his son able to appreciate his deviousness and smirk back. They were a pair of Slytherins, the two of them

“Yeah, well, it's ducky since I am the only student under third-year that has gotten to come down here, and no one as often as me,” he said, picking at the label of the Butterbeer that appeared before him. “What is the purpose of this visit? Not that it isn't always nice to see you, but I didn't expect another visit until next weekend. You didn't mention in any of your letters that you would be coming up here, so it seems rather sudden to me, like something has come up,” Michelangelo said, demonstrating, once again, his extreme perceptiveness and insight. He was small so most mistook him for younger than he was, but if they heard the things that often came out of his mouth, they would guess him to be much older than 12.

“Yes, well,” Draco said, then picking at his own bottle's label but in a more nervous, less bored, way.

“What's up? Your arm okay? The Ministry not giving you a hard time? I mean, they pardoned you, they have no right to…” he said, starting to get heated in his father's defense but Draco raised his good arm to make an ease back motion to calm his concerned son.

“No, no, it has nothing to do with that and my arm is fine, the infection is still clearing up,” he assured, Michelangelo a total mess with worry over his father when he learned he had been shot last month, and then again when he learned his father had collapsed due to the infection that had set in to the poorly tended wound. Michelangelo was just a boy still and already he hated the Ministry with a passion. He had some legitimate reasons why too, which almost made it worse.

Draco took a deep breath, black circles around his slightly sunken in eyes showing just how ill he was still. “How is school?” he asked.

“You are avoiding my question.”

“No I'm not.”

“Yes you are.”

“I am not, I am delaying it, tell me about school,” Draco deflected, honestly interested but stalling at the same time and not hiding that fact.

“Everything is going fine, like I said in my letter yesterday. Not much has happened between then and now.”

“You said you had Quidditch play today?” Draco prompted. The school, for first years and those not on the teams, allowed the field to be used when no one else had it booked. Often times, on weekends, there were small games, few coming to watch but plenty willing to play. It was sort of a free-play and a means of practicing for the hopefuls of next year. Michelangelo was one of those hopefuls. He wanted nothing more than to make the Slytherin Quidditch Team in his second year like his father before him and his father before that. He showed great promise for a first year, but Draco felt the need to inform his son that it was highly unusual for someone to make their house team before their fourth year, them usually having to tryout at least twice before getting a spot on the team if they prove good enough. Michelangelo wouldn't hear it, however, convinced he could do anything his father could do, Draco unwilling to tell his son that he himself was unsure of his capability of doing what his father had done, which was buy him onto the team.

He had been skilled, but not so much as a Seeker but as a Chaser, but unfortunately, the only open position had been Seeker and, well, the rest was history. Once his and Harry's rivalry on the Pitch was established he couldn't go and change positions, it would be like accepting defeat, so instead he was served defeat every match against Gryffindor. Was that better? In some ways yes, in others Draco wished his Malfoy Pride would cut him some slack so he could do the smart thing for once. It seemed that Michelangelo had that proud streak in him too, and though Draco knew the dangers of that, he let his son run his course, the problem with the pride being Michelangelo wouldn't accept his offered advice anyways, so it was a waste of effort on something as inconsequential a thing.

Michelangelo humored his father with a play-by-play for a while; Draco excited for his son's team victory and proud of him, but soon Michelangelo grew bored of entertaining his father in his one-sided conversation and wanted to know what was up.

“Well,” Draco said, thinking about how he could get onto the topic without just blurting out the situation. “I was hoping to learn from you how you are adjusting to the whole Ginny situation,” he started off by saying.

“Fine,” Michelangelo said just a little too readily. Draco just tapped the side of his own nose with his pointer finger, that being his sign between him and his children when he wanted the truth, them all knowing he knew when they lied. “Dealing,” he said then, still being vague but honest at least.

“You okay with these plans I have made? I have tried my best to make you a part of them and include you in everything while you are here.” he said, already having written to his son about moving into number twelve by summer.

“Yeah, I mean, I'm still getting used to Ginny, but I won't miss that apartment,” Michelangelo said, smiling at his father's bashful chuckle, knowing their home was less than glamorous or even humble. Michelangelo and Clarissa had lived with their Grandmother while Draco was in Azkaban, and then moved in with him once he got his own place, even though his apartment was a step down from where they had previously been. The children wanted to be with their daddy. The first time he had been able to hug them, hold them, pick them up, he hadn't put them back down. The first few months they lived together they all shared his bed, him -possibly more then even the children- needing the closeness. Nine years without any physical human contact was a long time.

“How are you adjusting to Ginny? I mean, you think you could cut her some slack yet?” Draco pushed. Michelangelo, like him, did not respond well to being pushed, or being told what to do. Malfoys were a stubborn breed too, on top of being prideful and arrogant. It all made for a bad combination really.

“What is going on? You never talk to me about Ginny, never. I never ask, you never divulge. What has happened? You two break up?” he asked, sounding just a touch too hopeful.

“No,” Draco mumbled.

“Oh-god,” Michelangelo said and Draco looked up at him. He hadn't figured it out had he? Damn his son being so much like him, for being so smart. “You two aren't getting married are you?” he asked and Draco blinked. Okay, so Michelangelo hadn't guessed, but he was damn close so the tightness in his chest did not lift.

“No, well, I mean, I asked her…”

“You asked Ginny to marry you? What, and she said no?” Michelangelo asked as he leaned across the table so his arms were pinned under his chest as he inclined towards Draco, sounding stunned at first that he would ask her, and then outraged that she would have the audacity to refuse him. This woman was supposed to love him and she would say no? Who did she think she was?

“Yes, I offered to marry her, and no, she didn't really say no, but…” he said, trailing off. Michelangelo could see the hurt in his father's eyes, though he hid it well. Draco was sad that Ginny had refused him, and Michelangelo hated her for that.

“What's going on?” he asked again, expecting a real answer this time.

“You know that I love you and Clarissa to pieces and bits, right?” he started by asking.

“Of course, we are bloody adorable,” Michelangelo said smartly though in a dismissive way, like his cuteness was never a question as he leaned back to thump his back against his chair. Draco sighed.

“Well, I have wanted to add to the brood for, well, years now,” he then attempted to explain. He had given Michelangelo “the talk” already and yet that seemed so much easier than this. Talking to his son about masturbation and sex was one thing, talking to his son about his own sex life was another.

Michelangelo looked at his father with very intent eyes, waiting for Draco to just say what he came there to say.

“Ginny and I are…without having really planned it or discussed it…but still very responsibly mind you…with a safety net and the maturity to handle this…” Draco rambled on, now caught between telling his son he was never to have sex, ever…and just owning up to what happened because he himself had had sex.

“What?” Michelangelo demanded.

“Ginny and I are going to have a baby,” he then just said, admitting to it in a very hushed voice so that it wouldn't carry. Not that there were ever many in the Hogshead anyways, still, the walls had ears.

Michelangelo did not respond verbally right away. He mostly just stared with pursed lips. That was something his grandmother had clearly taught him. Draco, trying to be the adult in the situation, did his best not to slump and fidget under his son's gaze like a child that had behaved naughty, but it was difficult. His children and him had a very open relationship, but that seemed to gave his children this sense of control over him, like they had equal say in all he did just as he did them.

“I can't believe…I mean, are you serious?” Michelangelo finally managed.

“Yeah,” Draco said heavily.

“Oh my God, like…wow. What did Nana have to say?” he asked.

“You are the first I have told,” Draco admitted and Michelangelo looked shocked all over again.

“Are you joking?”

“No. Ginny told me, and now I have told you.”

“Why me first?”

“Because your opinion is what matters most to me at the moment, because you are here so I can't tell you at the same time I would the rest of the family, because I think you deserve to know given all the grief we have caused each other over me dating Ginny,” Draco said simply.

“Nana is going to fly off the Quidditch Pitch over this.”

“I know, thus why I am appealing to you first. I really need your support in this since we both know and understand the hell I am going to get from the family, mine and hers.”

“But,” Michelangelo said, sighing. “I still don't like it that you are even with Ginny,” he said, back on this topic again, this underlying problem.

“I know, but if you would but give her a chance,” Draco beseeched.

“I did, I tried. I just don't like her and I don't know any other way of getting you to understand that then by just bloody flat out say it: I don't like her!” he snapped.

“Tone it down,” Draco reprimanded, knowing his son was upset but not about to let him talk to him in such a way.

“I have respected your desire to see her, but a baby? Dad, are you serious? You can't be having a baby with her. I mean, physically you can, but you know what I mean…people will flip! The papers will go nuts, even more so than when they discovered you were seeing her…and the Ministry-”

“Michael, I know. I have a greater grasp on such things than you, I think,” he said, tired and a headache already in place as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Michelangelo leaned back to bump his back against his chair as he crossed his arms and waited for…something, for his father to jump up and say “fooled you!” or for someone to wake him up from this nightmare, but as the minutes ticked by, it seemed less and less likely that either of those two things were bound to happen.

“I want you to give Ginny a chance.”

“I did already.”

“I want you to give my relationship with her a chance,” Draco sighed.

“I tried.”

“What do you want from me?” Draco then demanded, not wanting to snap at his child but at wit's end here.

“I want you to just be my dad, I want things to be how they were, how it was when you came home and had nothing but our love. You didn't need anyone else then, I don't need a mother,” he said and Draco looked down guiltily at the sound of his son's desperation in communicating the longing he had for when it was just the three of them, Clarissa and them, just the three of them loving and taking care of each other. “I don't like you dating her, or asking her to marry you, or having a baby with her. Don't I get a say in this? This is not only your life you're messing around with!”

“Michael, we have been over this, I am the father here, and I don't have to ask you for permission to do anything.”

“I don't want Ginny living with us.”

“She has no where to go.”

“If she hadn't cheated on her boyfriend she wouldn't have been kicked out of her house!” Michelangelo snapped but Draco slammed his drink down on the table in an irritated sort of way that caused Michelangelo to flinch and stop.

“That's enough,” Draco warned, not about to hear this anymore. “You're disrespect towards me is inexcusable yet I always let it slide, but I won't when it comes to Ginny.”

“Sorry,” Michelangelo mumbled, still looking angered.

Ginny came back into the bedroom, drawing Draco out of his memory and he gave her a kiss before heading off to wash up himself, not mentioning the little “daydream” as he liked to call it because they worried her. Learning that he fell totally motionless and largely mute while gazing distantly in these “daydreams”, and that he exhibited purposeless agitation, worried him since he had gone and read up on Schizophrenia and learned that those were some of the more “severe” symptoms. He hadn't told Ginny what Dr. Valensclaro had said. Firstly, he didn't want to believe him, desperately didn't want to believe him. But also couldn't worry Ginny in such a way in her condition. He had learned that being pregnant did not mean she was “broken” and though he had questioned if it were safe for her to do just about anything -from ride in a car, to vacuum- while pregnant at first, he knew now she was fully functional in most any way, but still, he couldn't tell her he was quite possibly extremely mentally disturbed.

It had been four months ago that he talked to Michelangelo, and the boy hadn't warmed up to the idea of Ginny yet, but he was adjusting…slowly. Okay, so the boy wouldn't talk to Ginny but when left no other choice, and he was pleasant enough when he wasn't being an angsty brat of a teenager, but Draco took it all in stride. He was sure, once the baby was born, Michelangelo would hold him or her in his arms and feel like it was all okay in the end because he had a little brother or sister now. Few could resist the allure of a tiny baby, even the Dark Lord had succumb to the cuteness of a baby Malfoy, sparing his, Draco's, life when he could have easily killed him that night he was born. Instead he named him. Draco couldn't complain about the name given what options were laid out that night as for his fate.

Dressing smartly since he knew he was gong to get his picture taken a lot today (vain, him? You bet,) Draco stepped out to grab some breakfast Ginny was making him. Three meals a-day: doctor's orders, or just Ginny's…either or. He still only ate small portions, and it always took him forever, and he had already gained all the weight he felt he really needed to gain, but refusing, even with the excuse of being late, wasn't an option with Ginny standing there with her wand drawn, hot skillet within reach.

“I say, is all this attention really necessary?” Lupin asked as he stood with Draco on Platform 9 3/4, waiting for the train to arrive. Draco was dressed in a lightweight set of black robes, sleek and new, so as to keep his skin covered. He was out in public, but even so, at home as well, he tied to keep his arms covered so as to hide his scars, and he was not a shorts and sandals kind of chap in the first place. His fitted shirt was black, as were his tight jeans and boots. He was standing there in a sort of leaning pose, arms crossed, head slowly surveying the crowd while his eyes were shielded by black sunglasses. He had a little bit of gold again, and he couldn't resist buying some snappy threads right away. He had lived in rags for years, he and his children deserved better than that, and hey, so did he, and now they had it.

“I would say they will all get over it, in time, but look at all the attention Potter gets years later with having done nothing significant in a long time,” Draco drawled, lips barley moving as he stood with his good friend. Remus Lupin was not only part of his family through marriage (he had married Nymphadora Tonks, Draco's cousin) but he was his two children's Godfather and guardian should anything ever happen to him.

“Be nice, Draco,” Ginny warned though lightly as she stood on his other side, her robes full and swishy, a clever pocket spell put to good use to hide her pregnant belly. The same spell used to deepen pockets and expand the interior of things like cars and closets, was cast on the interior of the front of her robes, so her stomach vanished into this deep unseen chasm in front of her, creating the illusion that her robes were falling flat. It was tricky since everything from a dump to a gust of wind could ruin the illusion, but Draco was impressed by Ginny's ingenuity. He had nearly forgotten after years in Azkaban why he had fallen in love with Ginny from afar all those years ago in Hogwarts. She was, after all, a very clever and powerful witch.

“Yes ma'm,” Draco drawled, smirking in his signature fashion because Ginny couldn't say anything about him giving her attitude with so many people around, many of them watching them and several taking pictures. The smirk had sparked a sudden round of flashbulbs going off.

The train was to pull up soon, but until then, Lupin and Draco chatted quietly, trying to act like they were not the center of attention on the platform. Draco had always resented Harry's celebrity, but there were few times he envied it. Well, maybe he had envied the attention, but not the trouble. People were insane. There weren't many better looking people out there to stand around and stare at, but certainly there were more important things for them to focus on…well, thinking on that…Draco smiled at his own conceitedness. People found him interesting, who was he to argue?

“I don't understand why she would up and leave, I mean, this is not easy for any of us to live with, but she had been dealing for years and always seemed so upbeat. I would dare to say this is very unlike her,” Lupin said and Draco nodded slowly, listening. Ginny's ears tingled with curiosity as she eavesdropped. Who were they talking about? Tonks was right there with them.

“I don't understand it either. I just saw her last week, she seemed causal and normal to me, no sense of distress or anxiety, and I would know after all, I wasn't trying to stop myself from reading her.”

“It has me worried,” Lupin confessed, his prematurely aged face worn with concern.

“Has anyone contacted her family, I mean, Fergie's family was considerably more understanding than most.”

“I know.”

“Who are you two talking about?” Ginny asked, lost and now hearing a name she did not recognize she had to inquire.

“This woman we know, we call her Fergie down at the pen,” -short for “penitentiary” where the werewolves the Ministry had documented and numbered hauled up for the full moon- “she seems to have run away,” Draco explained before Lupin interrupted to finish.

“But many of us,” he said, meaning werewolves, “think something sinister went down, like she was kidnapped or hurt. She wouldn't have run away, the Ministry keeps such close tabs on us that she wouldn't risk the trouble she would get into for not reporting in for the moon, and she was a pretty thing, relatively new, so it is not entirely impossible that she was grabbed by someone, you know the sorts of things people do when they corner themselves a werewolf,” he said darkly. Ginny swallowed and nodded, knowing what he meant. Werewolves were hardly considered people to this day. Though there were laws in place to protect their rights now that did not change public opinion or the fact that for years they were classified as “Creatures of or near Human intelligence” at best. Firing someone for being a werewolf was considered “discrimination” now, but there were always loop holes. They were late too often, accused of stealing from the office, something, and life on the street was even harder. Since werewolves struggled to get or keep jobs, and were forbidden to interact with Muggles, they were often poor and homeless, and when cornered by a bigoted witch or wizard, well, lets just say that their fait was not that of a kind euthanasia like a stray dog's would be.

Lupin and Draco were not above such torments and bigotry, but they handled it in stride, but she couldn't recall anything truly terrible happening to either of them in years, so hearing about something bad happening to someone they both knew chilled her to the bone. She had to resist placing her hand on her stomach, where Draco's unborn pup moved as though it too were fretful of the world it would shortly be thrust into.

“The Ministry looking into this?” she asked, not really wanting to stay on such a dismal topic on such a beautiful day, but unable to resist the idle hope of some reassurance.

“The Ministry? Search for a missing werewolf? Are you mad?” Draco drawled, looking at her like he seriously worried over his wife's sanity.

“What Draco is trying to say is, the Ministry may defend our rights on paper, but you would be hard-pressed to get them to stand from their desks for a wolf. They will only make a case of things if she misses a full moon, and then only because they would consider her a rogue, a `danger to the community'.”

“You mean, they wouldn't care if she was in danger, but the second she is a threat to someone else, they will do something? Ginny asked, shock readable in her voice. Draco found Ginny's innocence and naivety in the matter heartwarming but a little depressing at the same time.

“That's about it,” he said, not letting his anger break through his placid mask.

The train could be heard long before it could be seen, so Draco dropped the topic there and stopped leaning to prepare for his son's arrival. There would be pictures taken, flashes blazing. There was a reason he was wearing sunglasses, and it wasn't only because he looked smashing in them.

Phinnaeus was the first of their party off, and he greeted his mother and scared father with a hug. Several pictures were taken. Fleur was just as lovely as she had always been. Having had four children and fourteen years pass her by, she looked marvelous. Not a drop of weight ever clung to her but for where it made her look that much sexier. She was tall, and dignified, and beautiful. She was a model when she wanted to be, a mother most of the time. Bill, on the other hand, once so strapping and handsome, was still good looking but in a very distinctive and rugged way. Draco was thankful that when Greyback had attacked him he had saved his face. Bill hadn't been so lucky. The scars were “character building” for sure, but sort of in the same way Ginny said his apartment had “character”, meaning it was a nice was of saying “ghastly”. Bill was unbothered by his looks, compromised or not. For a guy once so good looking and with such a beautiful wife, he was the least shallow man Draco had ever met.

Michelangelo was off the train after his quasi-cousin and was greeted by flashbulbs, a lot of them. He managed to not glare, too fiercely, as he threw his bag's strap up on his shoulder properly and stalked over to his awaiting father. Draco wanted to give him a hug but Michelangelo was at that stage, at that age, where hugs were not “cool”. There would be a time, once he was a man, that they could hug again and it not compromise Michelangelo's masculinity, but right now, Michelangelo would be mortified if Draco had hugged him in front of all those people. So Draco did it. He grabbed his son by each shoulder and pulled him into his chest to hug him because he was not about to get his picture taken a hundred times after getting up early to not get a hug out of it all. Michelangelo would survive, he might not speak to him again in that time, but the boy would carry on.

“Good to see you home, son,” Draco said, sounding just like his father, affectionate while oh-so proper at the same time. He wasn't even trying; it was just like he fell into that role, him wanting so much to be his father.

“Yeah-yeah, like I had a choice?” Michelangelo grumbled, happy to be home but too stubborn to show it. Draco could sense how his son felt, and other than horrified at being hugged and it being photographed for surely the whole world to see come evening, he was glad to be home, glad to see him. Michelangelo had sprouted since entering Hogwarts, and the last few months had seen him shoot up a few inches.

“Michael!” Clarissa squealed with glee as she ran up to him and hopped up with her arms wide open to hug him around the neck and laugh. Flashbulbs erupted all over again. “Good that you are home!” she giggled, knowing she was only adding to her brother's humiliation. She didn't care, she liked the attention. She had stood over by one of the pillars, smiling and holding the bottom edge of each side of her knee-length blue sundress out like she was going to curtsy, and posed and smiled and spun around for the cameras to bath her in their flashes and praises. They asked her to look this way and that while telling her she was very pretty and what a lovely little dress she had on, asking if her daddy had picked it out for her, which she had happily replied “yes” to. She blew kisses and winked and giggled and played up to the cameras with a sort of natural ease and comfort.

Draco didn't know where Clarissa got it from. Ginny knew, and she had to laugh at Draco for being unable to see how much Clarissa acted like him, but in a distinctively more girly-fashion.

“Alright, alright, come on everyone, let's stop congesting the platform. Boys, could you get the trunks?” Mrs. Weasley said, looking to her sons Fred and George to pick up the school-things.

“Sure thing, Mum,” the answered, drawing their wands as they headed off to the baggage car before too many people clogged up the area and delayed the family's departure.

Trunks, owls, and children now in tow, The Weasleys, Malfoys, and Lupins, headed back to the Burrow for a picnic. The family was so massive now that Fred and George had to fund the “little get-together”. Tables had to be rented, food ordered, seating arranged, and plenty of activities arranged to keep all the grandchildren occupied while the adults tried to mingle without too much worry. Draco had never been to any such family gathering before. He had been to garden parties, but they were nothing like this, nothing less then painfully proper and hushed, women talking softly, separate from the men who smoked and talked a lot of business while string quartets played softly amidst the garden fountain and peacocks. Draco had spent those parties attempting to avoid his admirer, Pansy, and try to sneak into the alcohol the adults had but never shared. Draco had attended a Christmas with the Weasleys, but it had not been with the family, just the friends. It had just been Ginny, Réamann, Harry, Hermione, Tonks and Lupin, Neville and his wife Orla, and Ron and Mrs. Weasley. It had been nice, but Draco had passed on Easter, because the full moon had landed so close to the holiday that year that he had been able to use it as excuse as to not meet the massive family. Now, he was out of excuses and means of delaying this, and Draco was a little nervous.

The Weasley brothers had all had something to say about Draco getting their sister pregnant, and though he hadn't been beaten quite like he had when they learned she and him were dating, they had put the fear of God in him. More accurately, they put a good healthy fear of wands in him. Five months had brought the blokes around a bit, and they turned out to be rather fun and welcoming, but still, Draco was a Malfoy in a sea of Weasleys, and he stuck out like a sore thumb in the mass of redheads.

“Uncle Draco?” little five-year-old Bridget asked him as they stood in the kitchen of the Burrow but an hour later.

“Yes?” Draco asked, looking at the puny redhead at his knees. She was a spawn of Percy's. He knew her name, and whom she belonged to only because of his Legilimency. He wouldn't have had a hope of knowing anyone apart without this sixth sense of his since five of the six Weasley brothers had bread so hurriedly. There were already twenty-three grandchildren, and that was without Ron having had any children of his own yet. If you count Hermione and Harry's, and then Ginny's, the family was showing no signs of slowing down either.

“Clarissa told me you make pancakes,” she said, a digit tucked into the pouch of her cheek as she talked, looking up at him with brown eyes that seemed to be three sizes larger than they should have been for her little face.

“I do,” he said, being joined by a few more runty-redheads.

“We want pancakes,” another chirped. Cian: son of Fred.

“There is a lot of food outside already,” he said, more little redheads crawling out of the wood work. Dermot: son of Charley, Elva: daughter of George, Kelan: son of Bill, Padraic: son of Percy, and Torin: son of Charley, all came to stare up at him. From the moment Draco had stepped into the home, everyone three feet and smaller had become enthralled with him. The older children seemed only mildly interested in their new “uncle Draco” with all the games and fun to be had outside, but the smaller ones who needed more attention and watching, the ones too young to know and fear a werewolf, flocked to Draco like he was some Pied Piper for midget redheads. He had thought he lost them by the sofa but they had found him, and again they were all about him, threatening to trip him up or be stepped on.

“This is not my home, I don't think it is my place to cook anything,” he attempted as Molly walked by, unconcerned with the situation.

“Oh, I don't mind dear, just don't make a mess,” she said as she vanished out the back door to join those outside. Draco stared at where she had just gone and sighed as redheads pawed at his knees.

--------------------

“Where's Draco?” Ginny asked Angelina as she looked around, unable to find her blond-man anywhere. Even with Angelina's dark skin and hair, she did not stick out quite like Draco did. Maybe everyone was just more accustomed to having her around, or that the platinum hair was just that much more light-catching, but amongst the redheads, she fit perfectly it seemed.

“Entertaining the young'ins inside,” Angelina laughed as she sat there on a lawn chair as the children chased the gnomes about. She and Fred had made some beautiful red-haired, medium-skinned, bark-eye babies. Ginny stood with a heave and made her way into the back door where she found Draco with all her littlest nephews and nieces. He was cooking, something she always found amusing, but not for his skill (he was quite talented) but because it was always a sight to see. Draco Malfoy cooking like a Muggle. You expected him to have servants do such a chore, or at the very least use magic, but no, not him, not anymore anyways. There he was, entertaining the children just like she had been told, with a pan and a spatula he had dug out from one cupboard or another.

“Can you flip them? Like, way up in the air?” Padraic asked, watching as Draco did something he had never seen in his life, cooking the Muggle way.

“I sure can,” Draco boasted, tending to the cooking batter.

“How high?” Torin asked, one of the smallest and yet able to sit there and talk and wonder.

“Real high,” he said as he demonstrated, using the spatula to flip the pancake up into the air and catch it on plate he had grabbed with his other hand with practiced ease that left the wee children in awe.

“Wow!” a few of them exclaimed as Draco flipped pancake after pancake on to the plate (only not that high this time,) cooking them fast for each to have one and not fight. They were all perfectly formed and the same size even, so the children couldn't complain over favoritism. Ginny was impressed.

“I told you, there is nothing my dad can't do,” Clarissa gushed, the little Weasley children all munching but nodding in agreement as they each held the simple pancakes in their hands and ate away at them, some making more of a mess with their crumbling than others.

“Very nice,” Ginny praised as she moved over. Draco looked up in what seemed like surprise that he had more of an audience then he had first thought, but smiled when he realized it was only Ginny and she was not teasing.

“Thank you,” he said, planting a small kiss on her lips.

“I bet there are things you can't do,” Kelan, the oldest one of the bunch said.

“You think so?” Draco said confidently, almost challenging the little boy to think of something he couldn't do.

“I bet you can't…ride a horse, backwards!” he said, thinking hard for something difficult in his own mind. Draco just smirked and Ginny caught that shadow of his old-self reemerge.

“Frontwards, backwards, you name it, I can do it,” Draco said confidently, his horses being his first true love.

“I bet you can't…talk backwards!” he attempted, already flustered by his new uncle's buoyancy.

Draco paused for a moment, looked up, and then smirked again.

“Try I if can I bet…” he teased. He could write backwards, but speaking it was a whole other story.

Kelan looked flustered so another child spoke up.

“Tap-dance?”

“Since I was small,” Draco smiled.

“Juggle?” another propositioned?

“You bet.”

“Can you draw?”

“Art is always a matter of opinion, and mine is of the finest if you ask me,” Draco laughed.

The small children seemed enthralled by their uncle's perceived greatness, and Ginny had to hide a smile behind her hand as Draco basked in the affections of the ankle-biters.

“Yeah? Well, you can't do magic!” Kelan then blurted out and Draco's smile wilted a little as he turned to look down at the young boy who had been so daring.

“He can to, he just doesn't. He went to Hogwarts and was top of his class!” Clarissa leapt in, defending her daddy with figurative fists flying.

“Alright, Kelan, we had our fun,” Ginny said, Draco seemingly unbothered by it what had been said beyond his initial reaction. “Where is your daddy, outside?” she asked, attempting to dispense the little-ones to whom they belong.

“Hey there you,” Ginny said once she had Draco to herself.

“Hey,” he said, nuzzling her a little with his nose like he always did.

“How is your day going so far?” she asked, knowing Draco had been stuck fleeing from the rugrats all morning.

“Your family is really kind, I now know why you cherish them so much,” he said, his nose behind her ear.

“I take it your family isn't like this?”

“Like what, massive? No,” he said and Ginny smiled, closing her eyes as she did so. “My family is little, so a get-together is just the handful of us, and my mother is very particular about manners and etiquette.” There was a loud gleeful scream of a child from outside. “That would never be allowed,” Draco said and Ginny laughed.

“I'm happy you are here with me,” she said as Draco hugged her from behind, his nose still in the hair behind her ear sending shivers down her spine.

“I'm glad you would have me,” he said before getting a devilish grin across his face. “Remember the last time you and I were here?” he said, speaking of the Burrow in general and not the kitchen in particular.

“Draco,” she giggled as Draco's hands moved from holding her pregnant tummy to lower.

“I don't think, with so many people here, that they would miss us if we were scarce for, oh, an hour or so,” he teased.

“An hour? Draco…” she started to protest with a giggle at the thought of rolling around in a romp with Draco for an hour, but Draco had her by the arm and was already leading her towards the stairs.

It was hot in the kitchen; they needed to go somewhere where they could have less clothing on.

-----------------------

Michelangelo sat in the living room with Phinnaeus and a few of his cousins that were closest to their age but was being distant.

“I don't get what's with you and this attitude,” Phinnaeus said as Michelangelo continued to look the other way, chin perched on the palm of his hand and elbow on the arm of the beaten up couch. His legs were also pulled up so he was almost squatting, knees up by his shoulders but bum firmly planted on the cushion. “I mean, I met you and you seemed so nice, now you are always moody,” he said, the cousins that didn't know Michelangelo yet looking on and listening, waiting to hear the boy finally talk.

He didn't.

One whispered “Not `moody'…`moony',” with a giggle in response and Michelangelo's jaw clenched slightly but otherwise he made no acknowledgement of the hushed comment.

“What's your trauma?” Phinnaeus demanded after more silence from the blond boy.

“I am not your friend, Phinn, so why do you care?” Michelangelo snapped.

“There, got you to talk,” Phinnaeus jeered while pointing. Michelangelo rolled his eyes before looking away.

“Way to manipulate the situation, you are truly just too cunning for me,” he said, making it ironic that he was the Slytherin of the bunch and not as crafty, but also paying no complement to the other boy either with his jab.

“Why are you such a git?”

“Why do you care, one way or the other?”

“We are family.”

“We are not,” Michelangelo growled.

“Your father is dating my aunt. That makes us cousins, or step-cousins.”

“My father is not married to Ginny so we are step-nothings, and furthermore, I am a Malfoy, not a Weasley, and I am not about to act all chummy to humor you or anyone else whilst sitting in the place I don't want to be in the first place.”

“What the hell? I heard you were a brat, but this is too much. You are no better than us, Michael. You are not richer, smarter, or superior.”

“I will argue with you on the smarter point, and in relative then the superior,” he drawled.

“Ohh, the werewolf boasts himself as superior,” Phinnaeus taunted and Michelangelo glared with lividness.

“Care to expand on that?”

“No, not at all,” Phinnaeus retorted but said nothing more for one of his cousins started to bark, mocking Michelangelo.

Michelangelo did not hesitate to leap forward from the couch to slide over the coffee table and wrap his hands around the other boy's throat and start choking him.

“Wanna try barking now? Huh? Do'yah? Not so easy when you can't breathe!” Michelangelo yelled at the boy, face pink with rage as his curls fell in his eyes, his elbows locked as he pinned the boy under him to the floor and shook him by the throat slightly, just so he thumped against the floor.

Phinnaeus was up the second after Michelangelo was over the table and he was pulling at his shoulders, thus causing his cousin to be shaken.

“Stop it, Michael! Let Derry up! I mean it!” he yelled, not getting any response and not getting the boy off. “Get off you freak!” he shouted at him, successfully ripping the boy-werewolf off his younger cousin who rolled over to chough, unable to cry as he struggled to breathe again.

Michelangelo's eyes were not every human looking at the moment and he glared at Phinnaeus. He heard him call him a freak, and Phinnaeus knew this, and looked a little scared as he protected his other cousins in the room where there were no adults. He stood there with his arms out as though to hold back his younger relations, not that they would try and get past him to Michelangelo.

“A freak am I?” Michelangelo growled.

“Michael, I did not mean…I was just wondering what happened to you is all. You seemed so different for the first half of the year, then that article was published and you weren't the same after that.”

“You try having your whole world turned upside-down and losing all your friends because they think you are a freak and maybe then you will understand without having to ask stupid questions,” Michelangelo growled. His teeth looked a little sharper than usual, than normal.

“They weren't really friends if they would abandon you like that,” Phinnaeus argued but Michelangelo didn't look calmed.

“Then I have never had any friends. Forgive me if I seem less than comforted.”

“I would have been your friend, like I said, we are family, or like it.”

“I don't recall you ever extending me a hand of friendship while at Hogwarts where all your little friends could see you. What, I am good enough to pity in private, but not enough to be your friend when there are witnesses around?” he barked.

“It's not like that…”

“Yes it is. You have your little Gryffindor friends, you don't need me, and I certainly don't need you. I don't need friends that call me a freak, and I don't need a whore mother,” he said and Phinnaeus narrowed his eyes at the insult to his aunt Ginny. Michelangelo stalked off to sulk somewhere else alone, and Phinnaeus turned to Derry on the floor and reached down to him, talking softly.

“Hey, are you alright, Derry?”

----------------------

Ginny sighed very contently as she laid there, Draco down below her belly, stimulating her in a way that made her legs sway open and closed around his shoulders slowly like a butterfly's gently flapping wings.

“How long have we been away?” she asked, her voice breathy and soft.

Draco, too busy to talk, just made an indistinct noise of not being sure; reaching up to hold her thighs open gently so as to stop them from bumping him.

Ginny breathed deep and steady as though to maintain control of herself, but she started to pant and bit her bottom lip to not make more noise.

They were in her childhood bedroom again, on the bed that squeaked too much. Ginny couldn't help but feel naughty, partially because this was her parent's house and nearly her whole family was there, down stairs, but also this being the place she had conceived. Not on the bed, but on her little desk just across the room. She and Draco had snuck off during Christmas dinner and Draco had fucked her. There was no other way of putting it, because any other words would not have covered it. It had been amazing, it had hurt a little, and it had apparently been a little too vigorous because their condom had failed them.

She wore the emerald necklace Draco had given her then, now and it glinted in the sunlight coming in through her bedroom window that was high up so no one outside would see in. Ginny loved sex in the daytime, something about the sunlight warm on her skin, or seeing it shine off of Draco's made it magical and almost surreal. She liked it better before she put on all the weight and looked like a big pregnant cow, but Draco, as evidence of what he was doing now, didn't seemed turned off by her appearance, so she did not complain…too often. In fact, Draco seemed more and more willing to sleep, make love, roll in the sack, romp, and fuck her, the more pregnant she got.

Draco, though he had been twelve years celibate (not by choice) was developing into quite the lover nowadays. Just six months had done a lot to mold their relationship, and given opportunity for him to perfect his art. His Legilimency was to thank for that. Being able to read her in depth to an extent no average man could, gave him insight into what she truly enjoyed, and let him know when he did something right, and he could do that more. What he did now, with his tongue and lips, and just a little bit of his teeth, was something she had never experienced with other men before Draco and her throat was dry and tight in a way she couldn't explain. It was like when he would deeply kiss her, but he was now on her intimate parts. He could tease her like this for half an hour until she was ready to flip him over and take him like he had enticed her body into wanting so badly, and he always enjoyed that part, enjoyed her topping him as he would rock his hips up to meet her with a furious need. More pregnant now, however, made that a little harder, or just a little slower. That wasn't Draco's favorite position anyways; he favored taking her from behind, with his body laid out over hers as he would hold her around the middle to him and thrust. This worked standing, kneeling, or laying flat on the bed, and that was how he had her now that he had moved away from below her tummy, only they were on their left sides, him behind her as though spooning but in a far less cuddly way and a much more grunting and sweating way.

“Oh,” she moaned over and over as she braced her hands and forearms against the wall she was facing, Draco's chin hooked over her shoulder to kiss at her ear every now and then between his panting. He was still really quiet in bed, but he had gotten better with the biting, though it was a regular occurrence now for him to have sharp teeth or fingernails. It seemed all his control either had to go to no biting, or no shifting. Ginny preferred the no biting since her friends had seen one of Draco's “hickies” the afternoon after a particularly fabulous evening with him and had freaked out. She was still weary of his claws and teeth, but she trusted him not to hurt her.

Draco groaned and Ginny moaned, again and again, getting a little louder each time. Draco knew she had put a muffelo charm on the room so no sounds of their sex would drift, but still, he did not want her to start screaming. It made him worry that he was hurting her. How could he tell if she was screaming because it felt good, or because he had just gouged her with a claw that he had dug into the wall before them at the moment? Legilimency helped but he was still paranoid of hurting her without meaning to and scaring her away.

Ginny's body started in its familiar tightening, indicating she was climaxing, and Draco stopped moving to allow her to milk his body of all it had to offer as he tilted his head back and sighed. It was so hot in that room, they were both sopping with sweat, hair a mess, sheets sticking to them as it was also twined around their legs.

They laid there for a moment, panting, and eventually pulled apart to allow their skin to cool. No need to cuddle, they each enjoyed that from time to time, but both were more content to just lay separate and cool down after most romps.

“I love you,” he said, his still rather bony chest heaving up and down as he panted. He had muscle now, but his sternum still jutted out awkwardly like his ribcage had a slight deformity.

“I love you more,” she challenged, still laying on her side so her back was to him, but able to tell he was smiling, beaming, glowing. He always did after sex, and she couldn't deny she wasn't radiant as a result herself.

---------------------------

Draco sat out in the garden, lounging casually in one of the reclining lawn chairs like he was sunbathing, but he was in long-sleeves and jeans. It was all lightweight, but it was still hot and it looked smothering. His sunglasses were in place and Draco had a certain strut about him that Ginny knew was a result of his sexual escapade but the rest of the family just took as his usual arrogance.

“You don't talk much, do you,” Fred asked, Draco looking over at him while his hands were still folded up behind his head. He said nothing. “You always had something to say in Hogwarts, yet here you are, silent.”

“I haven't anything to say,” Draco said, looking over at him and a little confused as to what was expected of him. Did they want him to be boisterous and irritating. He could be if they demanded it of him, but he figured they would appreciate him just relaxing and being his now usual quiet-self more. Damn Weasleys were impossible to please.

“So, what happened? I never heard of a successful personality transplant before,” Percy interjected, coming to sit with his brother.

“Oh, I don't know, it went well with you,” Fred jeered, elbowing his once so stuck-up brother.

“Har-har,” Percy responded sardonically.

“It is just a result of Azkaban,” Draco said, shrugging, looking back up to the sky, arms still folded up, eyes closed behind his glasses. “Be glad that it made me quite rather than having the opposite effect. Blaise Zabini still will randomly start screaming without realizing it. It would actually be kind of funny, if it weren't so sad. It's why he and I do not spend more time together.”

Ron appeared, and while Draco was obviously close-eyed and oblivious, sat on him.

“Oi!” Draco grunted upon being crushed beneath the much larger man.

“Oh!” Ron exclaimed in mock surprise, “Sorry mate, I didn't see you there. You are so quiet…”

“Yeah, yeah, get off me you brute, you are squashing my precious organs,” Draco grunted. Ron didn't exactly leap up from Draco but did eventually stand to look down at Draco who played dead at that point.

“Oh dear, Ron, you have killed him,” Percy laughed.

“No sense in getting our hopes up,” Fred sighed wistfully as Draco sat up stiffly and glared at Ron who looked quite pleased with himself. Of all the brothers, ironic that it was Ron that had warmed up to Draco the most.

Ginny was at the table covered in food, Draco was being picked on by her brothers (in a non-malicious manner) but the mood suddenly took a turn for the worse when George stalked out of the house, his sobbing son Derry in tow.

“Malfoy,” he called, getting most of the adults to turn their attention in that direction due to the use of Draco's surname, something the family had refrained from doing for some time now. Draco looked up from his conversation with Ron and looked puzzled, even behind his dark lenses, as to what he could have possibly done.

“I need to talk to you about your son keeping his goddamn hands of my kid,” he growled, everyone then looking to the little Derry whose neck was red and starting to bruise. A quick spell would fix him right up, but clearly it was being left for just a brief moment as evidence.

Draco looked utterly shocked and bewildered as did the rest of everyone on the lawn, but his face quickly darkened in anger as he tilted his chin down. Where was his son?

-----------------

“What the bloody-hell has gotten into you?” Draco scolded, not quite yelling because he never did, but he was damn angry and both Ginny and Clarissa were sitting in the car, feeling completely uncomfortable while they were enclosed in such a small space, unable to escape this.

Draco was driving, Ginny was shotgun, Clarissa was behind her, and Michelangelo behind him. Clarissa was very intently looking out the window as though deaf, Ginny was looking at Draco periodically with pleading eyes as though begging for him to wait until they got home to yell at the boy, and Michelangelo in the back, arms crossed, face so angry. He did not answer his father, so Draco continued.

“You could have seriously hurt him! What kind of impression are you trying to make with this family? Are you trying to ruin this, because if you are, congratulations, I think you have.”

“Draco, don't say that,” Ginny said softly.

“Oh, like your family doesn't think I'm the worst father in the world? I know they just can't wait to invite me to another gathering,” he barked at her, not mad at her but snapping at her anyways. It was that temper of his rearing its ugly head.

“I'm sure there is a…”

“A what? A reason why my son would choke your nephew? I can't really think of any, I don't know Ginny, can you? He is your blood-relation, you tell me.”

Clarissa sobbed a little from the back seat. It had gone from Draco yelling at Michelangelo to fighting with Ginny, and she liked neither, but hated this more than that. She looked over at Michelangelo with tearful eyes of hate. She hated him at the moment, because she loved Ginny and hated that Michelangelo was ruining things. She felt he had done this on purpose, because he hated that Ginny and their father were dating. She thought this was him trying to break them up, and Michelangelo looked angrier than ever.

“Phinn called be a freak and Derry started barking at me,” he announced suddenly, answering his father's question so Ginny didn't have to. Ginny couldn't think of a good reason for Michelangelo to choke her nephew, and Draco certainly refused to see anything about it acceptable, but that exclamation shut everyone up for a brief moment. Clarissa looked at him, shocked now but tears still in her eyes, Ginny turned in her seat a little to look at the boy and then Draco, and Draco's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“Why didn't you say something then, when Phinn and Derry when to their dads?” Draco asked, not wanting to admit that maybe he had been wrong, and that Michelangelo had had a legitimate reason for choking Derry, but only because he didn't like the idea that there was ever a good enough excuse to choke a ten-year-old.

“Because the stupid Weasleys wouldn't have believed me.”

“Hey, Michael,” Draco warned, Ginny up in the front and pursing her lips together like she was resisting the urge to say something. “I won't have you talking like that about Ginny's family.”

“She's a stupid Weasley too,” Michelangelo humphed, crossing his arms to look out the car window.

“That's it, you are officially grounded this summer, the whole summer,” Draco said firmly and Michelangelo's jaw dropped in outrage as his arm loosened.

“You can't be serious!” he fumed in outrage.

“What would you have me do?” Draco growled, staring at the road ahead fiercely. “You won't respect me, you don't respect Ginny, you do what you will regardless of my authority and seem to expect to still have all your privileges even after you misbehave? Today you seriously misbehaved, Michael.”

“He called me a freak! Derry was barking at me! What would you have done?” Michelangelo demanded, sounding so angry he could cry.

“I would have gone to my father and had it sorted out. They would have gotten in trouble, but because you decided to take care of it on your own, in the manner you chose, now it is you that is in trouble.”

“This fucking sucks,” Michelangelo said, nearly under his breath but Draco hadn't missed that and Ginny gasped just a tiny bit, knowing Draco was seriously not going to react well to that.

“What did you just say?” he barked, looking over his shoulder, despite the fact that he was driving.

“You heard me,” Michelangelo said, scared now that he had gone too far, but too stubborn to back down at this point. Draco turned back around, lips pursed together so tightly in his lividness that they were drained of what little color they normally carried as he slowly shook his head and breathed very steadily, like he was counting silently. Ginny peeked over her shoulder at Clarissa, to assure the little girl that she was not alone in the car in her discomfort.

Michelangelo was the first out of the car when they pulled up to the apartment building that they were supposed to be vacating that evening, but their plans clearly delayed now given this recent development. The boy was up the stairs, in the house, and stalking towards his room before Draco could even toss his belt off in his anger and kick his door open. Ginny gathered Clarissa up and walked slowly with her up the stairs, letting Draco go first, knowing he was about to have a few choice words with his son.

They took their time, and when the girls finally entered they just saw Draco sitting there on the couch, looking as cantankerous then as Ginny had ever seen him, loud music blaring from Michelangelo's room that was obviously locked.

“I'm just a kid, and life is a nightmare. I'm just a kid, I know that it's not fair. Nobody cares `cause I'm alone and the world is having more fun than me. What the fuck is wrong with me, don't fit in with anybody. How did this happen to me? Wide awake I'm bored and I can't fall asleep, and every night is the worst night ever…” the song blared and Ginny sighed.

“Claire, sweetie, why don't you skip down to your Nana's for a few hours,” she said, Narcissa living just a building over from Draco and a few floors up. Clarissa nodded and Ginny squeezed her hand tightly before leading her to the door. She watched Clarissa from the door until the girl was safely inside before turning back to Draco. While he had looked positively livid but a moment ago, now he had his hair gripped by its roots and he had a tear welling in each eye.

“Draco…” she said, heart falling upon seeing him. Draco tilted his head down so his palms pressed against his forehead to hide his face from her as she approached. “Don't cry,” she begged, Draco not a big weeper, but a man that did cry sometimes.

“Your family hates me, and now…”

“They don't hate you, no, Draco, they have been progressively warming up to you for months,” she argued.

“They can't like me all that much if they turned on me so quickly today,” he argued, taking a deep shuddering breath as though to try and suppress his tears but unable to keep them from finally freeing themselves from his lashes and dropping onto his thigh.

“Draco, they were just worried, and shocked…I mean, you were just as mad…”

“They were mad at me, not Michael,” he sobbed.

“No,”

“They were, they are. Fuck,” he sobbed, shaking his tensed hands at that word before gripping his hair again.

Ginny wrapped an arm around Draco and tried her best to comfort him, unsure of what she could say that would assure him that her family really did not think him a terrible father, all the while unaware that Michelangelo was at her back, peeking around the doorway that lead from the living room to the bedrooms and bathroom. He was looking guilt ridden and meek, seeing his father cry.

-------------------------------------

Author's Note:

Let's see, we had a fun flashback with McGonagall and saw how Michael feels about Ginny and the baby (which many of you asked about), there seems to be a foul plot afoot (it's not mine, I just washed them!) Draco and Ginny got a busy (smut), we saw Lupin again (yay!), and Ron (squee) and we learned that Draco enthralls little children (lol). Clarissa is a darling with her love for the Paparazzi.

Damn, Michelangelo is such a little bastard…god I love him. We all have had to endure this wonderful phase boys go through, but never has it been a Malfoy. Please don't hate Michelangelo, his character is just fleshing out a lot, and it is changing considerably. I feel bad for him more than anything given what a rough time he had at Hogwarts in those final months. You can't deny he is a little Draco, but if you haven't guessed, there is a certain amount of his mother in him, because you KNOW Draco never would have had the balls to say things like Michael had said to HIS father.

Anyway, another fun chapter. I am getting into the swing of things again and I'm excited.

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Forgive typos. I'm lazy this week. Check out my newest D/G art in the fanart section of this website.

Fallen Angel

Chapter 03

Moving out of the apartment was delayed by only a day. The following morning everyone was not talking about the events of the evening before, and Michelangelo wasn't talking at all. He was grounded, and he seemed to feel that giving his father the silent treatment was the best way to go about getting out of it, and Draco was not about to reinforce that belief and was being just as cold. Ginny hated it that Michelangelo and Draco's relationship was so strained, and felt it was her fault, and Draco knowing this was only angrier as a result. He didn't want Ginny feeling she had done anything and wished he could comfort her without basically saying his son was being a bastard.

Clarissa seemed the most upset over everything, so Draco scooped her up and got her to giggle as he smiled, threatening to box her up and put her in the truck, and her screaming and kicking, saying “no” but not really fighting in any way that would stop him. This display of affection seemed to only put Michelangelo in a worse mood and he proceeded to finish packing his stuff, loading it in the truck by himself, and sitting in the front seat, content in riding over with the mover rather than his family.

By noon Draco was less angry, and more sad. Sleeping on everything had helped with his temper, and though seeing Michelangelo first thing in the morning had reminded him precisely why he was so pissed off, the fact that his son had not come around yet, like he had half expected, and they hadn't apologized and hugged, and made up, and weren't best buddies again, really had Draco rather distraught. He wanted his boy back, but Michelangelo didn't show any signs of making amends as he walked with his nose up, and was stubbornly silent.

“He just needs some time to cool down,” Ginny assured Draco quietly as Draco watched Michelangelo's back after he had passed without a word, carrying his own box of belongings, Draco having straightened from the box he had been about to lift. Ginny was not doing much lifting, but she was helping where she could, mostly figuring out where each box should go once inside.

“Yeah,” Draco said, melancholy, leaning down and scooping up the heavy box and lifting it with a sigh. “Your brothers had offered to help with this, but I would be a fool to expect them to still show up at this point, right?” he asked as he slowly passed Ginny.

“It is only two, they still have time,” she attempted but Draco was already walking away and Ginny then sighed herself. She wanted to call her brothers and demand that they get their collective asses over there and help their pregnant sister move like they had promised, but Draco would know immediately that they were there because of her orders and not because they did not seemingly hold him accountable for yesterdays debacle, and Draco wouldn't appreciate that. He would rather do it alone. Draco always had a certain air around him that he was to stand alone against the world, and Ginny was trying to break him of that, but it seemed nothing in life was willing to do anything less than reinforce this belief in him.

Grimmauld Square was still a shabby mess of unkempt grass and dilapidated houses flush up against each other, but Draco had workers all about number twelve, hammering away, the sounds of many hands working echoing about. The shutters on the widows as well as the glass were being replaced; the exterior stripped and repainted a charming deep emerald with black accents that suited the place perfectly and helped it stand out against the monotony of the identical houses crammed up along side it. The steps that lead to the front door had been torn out and replaced, now adorned with rod iron railings that had a decorative leafing intertwinement. The front door had been taken down, cleaned, repainted, and re-hung on new but suitably antique looking hinges. A mail slot was added, a doorbell installed (the silver knocker now more for show) and the neighbors seemed enthralled with their new arrivals. The house was no longer hidden by the Fidelius Charm, and though everyone had long ago come to grips with the amusing mistake of the miss numbering that had left number eleven and number thirteen beside one another, it had not been difficult to come in with a mild Confoundus Charm to lead the neighbors all to believe it wasn't the house that had been missing, but just the number on its front. Just that minor tweak to their memories was all it took to make them content, all too interested in the work that was being done to really think on it. Draco remembered now why he thought Muggles so stupid as a boy, they so easily and uniformly manipulated as they were.

Despite the great efforts already taken, the house was still in dire need of a lot of work, but it was more hospitable than it had been for years, and the electricians had just finished the night before so they now had that `newfangled Muggle electricity' like Draco liked to say in a mockingly-unintelligent drawl. His mother had been faint at the proposal of wiring up the old wizarding home with Muggle technology, like cable, phone lines, electricity, central heating and air, but it was Draco's home, and his money, and she couldn't say anything. She herself had grown accustomed to such conveniences while living in a Muggle apartment building, she just could not see past what the house stood for. She remembered living in that home as a girl, and the gas lamps and fireplaces were part of the ambiance and the soul of that home in her opinion. Draco had left the silver serpent candelabras and assured her he would not be gutting the home, keeping the spirit and pride of the Black Family alive with all he was doing to fix the place up, but she still seemed rather inconsolable about Muggles being allowed in. The portrait of Mrs. Black certainly hadn't much of anything nice to say on the matter either.

Draco had taken care of that, however, and had a trained magical-painting-handler come in and deal with her. She was now gagged, something no one else had been able to manage, and she now resided quietly behind her curtain, until she agreed to be civil.

Draco wasn't holding his breath for that any more than he was for the painting to be removed. The painting expert had weighed his thoughts on the matter, and even he couldn't think of a spell that would remove it.

Ron turned sideways in the front doorway as a mover walked out, and he waited for him to pass before squeezing in to look up and then around the long cramped front hallway, wondering where he would likely find Draco. Luckily Draco came wondering into view and saved him the trouble of the search.

“Hey,” he welcomed as Ron approached, offering a very masculine-pound-on-the-back-hug upon seeing him.

“Hey yourself. I heard someone was moving into this dump and thought I would check it out,” he joked and Draco rocked his head side to side in a “yeah-yeah” manner and rolled his eyes.

“You are the only one coming then?”

“I'm sorry about all that.”

“Not your fault,” Draco dismissed with a brush of his hand as he turned and picked up and box that seemed to have been abandoned in the center of the hallway and taking it to be stacked along the wall of the drawing room where other boxes were out of the way.

“No, seriously, it wasn't fair that everyone seemed to jump on you like that when…”

“When they should have jumped on my son instead?” Draco finished for him, showing exactly how much he did not like that idea more.

“No, no, they shouldn't have jumped on anyone,” Ron attempted.

“I would have been just as upset if Michael had been the one choked, I can't blame them,” he shrugged, oddly bland for such a topic.

“This defeatist attitude is not like you,” Ron sighed. He and Draco were like friends now, still bullied the crap out of each other, but not in an ill-willed way. It was a little awkward because Draco and Harry were still at each other's throats, and Harry was Ron's best mate and Draco was quickly becoming a rival to that, but Ron managed to be stuck between them nicely. He was bigger than both of them, which had its uses.

“My son will not speak to me,” Draco said, looking at Ron and letting him see how much this upset him. Ron listened as Draco recapped the car ride home and Ron looked like he was unsure he could swallow due to his discomfort.

“That's rotten, mate, I'm sorry,” he said and Draco just sighed, sitting on one of the boxes, it not even mildly crushing do to his slight weight.

“Those kids, what they did is unacceptable, but how Michelangelo reacted is inexcusable…but I don't know how to handle this without looking like the bad-guy to everyone. I can't defend Michael while angry with the boys without your family turning on me completely, but I can't reprimand my son for doing something I probably would have done in his place, but I can't excuse his behavior, or the way he has spoken to me. I can't comfort Ginny without making Michael feel like I am choosing her over him, but I can't ignore her either. I can't reassure Clarissa by being all playful and lovie with her without seemingly rubbing that in Michael's face, but she needs me to be her dad…and I feel like such an arsehole for getting so angry with my son, but I let my temper get the better of me…again.”

“Draco, I would have gone ballistic in your situation, I think you handled it better than a lot of people could.”

“I actually thought about hitting my son!” Draco divulged and Ron's shoulders slumped. “What kind of father thinks about hitting their son when so angry?”

“A lot of them, but they also don't actually act on such thoughts, and you didn't.”

“This is not the kind of environment I want to bring a baby into,” Draco sighed, elbows on his knees, palms on his forehead while his head was down.

“I can talk to my brothers, given a night to sleep on it all, I'm sure they will come around…”

“If that were true they would be here now, helping their pregnant sister move.”

Ron didn't know what to say about that, because what Draco said was probably true.

“Uncle Ron!” Clarissa exclaimed as she walked by the room and saw him in there with her father, having thought she had heard his voice carry to her in her chosen bedroom. Their first meeting had been rough (frying pans had been a-flying and curse words thrown about along with fists) but she had gotten a second chance to be introduced to “Uncle Ron” and he had been unable to resist and succumbed to her charms, just like everyone who had ever met her.

“Oh-no, it is a Claire-monster!” Ron laughed as he scooped the girl up. She really was quite small for an eleven-year-old.

“You have come here to help us?” Clarissa asked, Draco having taken a deep breath and whipped his hands over his face and up through his hair to brush it away, no sign of any emotion he had displayed with Ron, all smiles and excitement there for his daughter. Ron was always marveled by Draco's ability to be so convincing. It was a little unnerving actually.

“Right I am,” he said, looking at Clarissa who had a smudge of dirt on her pale but freckled cheek, her hair so wild curling that the ponytail could not even fully contain it.

“Then come, I need someone to help me set up the canopy on my bed!” she said, wiggling to get down but grasping Ron's hand firmly in the process and already leading him off before he had the chance to say anything.

“The paint is still wet in there,” Draco called after her, trying not to laugh at Ron who was looking back at him in a “why me?” manner, suggesting it was Draco who should be on such duties. “Have fun,” he called after them, wiggling his fingers in a playful wave that got Ron to glare at him as he vanished around the doorway, off to the pink room of ruffles and glitter to help hang lace.

There was a crash from downstairs and Draco sighed, heading down the single flight of stairs to see what had happened. In the kitchen he found Ginny grumbling and flicking her wand at the box that was now toppled onto the floor, its contents littered about.

“Are you alright?” he asked, coming up behind her and almost startling her.

“Oh, Draco, yeah.”

“What happened?”

Ginny grumbled. “I thought I could just move this myself, but I ended up just knocking it all to the floor.”

“I told you, no lifting,” he said, encircling his arms around her waist from behind to hold her tummy and press himself up against her back. “I don't want you hurting yourself…”

“I am fine.”

“Or my belongings,” he teased and she tried to elbow him.

“Prat.”

“Ron is here,” he said, disregarding that and crouching down to put the last of the cutlery that was still on the floor back into the box.

“Ron is here? I didn't think…”

“Anyone would be coming?” Draco offered to finish and Ginny looked a little abashed. “Ron, even as the knucklehead he often is, was able to see that I am not accountable for what happened. He seems as delusional as you that your family will one day love and adore me…as they rightfully should in my honest opinion,” he said, tone light, but his true emotion there far from it.

“Draco, you are too hard on yourself, and others feed off of that. People are drawn to self-confidence, and I know you have that in you.”

“No, I have arrogance, and that is not the same thing. People are not drawn to that, they resent it,” he argued.

“You just need to be the sweetheart I know you are deep…deep, deep, down and my family will take you back,” she kidded, exaggerating how deep down it was that he was a darling.

“Implying that they had `taken me in' in the first place?”

“They were trying,” she grumbled.

“I don't want people trying to like me, Ginny. I want them to either like me, or hate me. I hate this kind of forced frivolity, it's insulting.”

Ginny just looked sad. Draco looked up at her when she didn't come back at him with some kind of retort and his face fell.

“Oh, Gin, don't look like that,” he pleaded, knowing the signs of a bout of tears from a mile away. He stood quickly to hug her, hoping to prevent the waterworks, but knowing he had failed when a familiar warm wetness seeped into his shirt's shoulder. “Don't cry.”

“I just, I don't know what to do…”

“We will think of something.”

“We shouldn't have to, you are right. We shouldn't have to defend ourselves to my family still, we shouldn't have to try and get them to accept us, and to like you. They have welcomed every other significant other into the family with open arms, except you. It's not right, it's not fair that you can't even get your toe in the door and they hold everything so readily against you.”

“I am not helping things, like you said. I need to show them that I'm worth accepting and not walking into the situation like they would be fools to not worship me.”

“This is not the environment I want to bring a baby into,” she sobbed and Draco held her tighter, knowing exactly how she felt.

---------------------

“Hey there, slugger,” Ron greeted Michelangelo, walking into his room slowly, hands in his pockets. Michelangelo looked up from his box and then over to Ron but said nothing. “Slugger, because you play as a Beater, right? You know, and…you…slug the thing…” he trailed off, his enthusiasm dying as Michelangelo just went back to digging in his box. Ron took a deep breath and continued on with the same esteem he had first entered with. “So, you picked this room as yours? It was Sirius', right? I like all the pictures all over the walls, can't get them off yet, hugh?” he asked, knowing the answer was no but hoping Michelangelo would answer him. He didn't. Ron pressed on. “I thought you would have taken the other room, with all the Slytherin pride all about it. Doesn't the Gryffindor banner over there, like, burn your eyes or something?” Ron teased, Michelangelo ignoring him. Sirius' room was plastered with Muggle clippings and posters. Plenty of which were of partially dressed women posing with cars and motorbikes and other such masculine things. Permanent sticking charms -as a sort of final insult to his family- had prevented any member of Black from removing the pictures after Sirius had run away. Now, however, they made decorating quite difficult. Draco hadn't known what to do with the room, but Michelangelo had taken to it instantly, and Draco allowed him to have it after painstakingly going through the room and inspecting every last picture. There was a fine-line between pin-up and pornography.

“Look, Michael, the reason I am up here is to talk to you about yesterday,” Ron sighed, giving up then on all pretenses. Michelangelo looked up at him with his pale eyes, showing that Ron had his undivided attention, but still saying nothing. “I wanted to let you know that I am not going to defend what Derry and Phinn said or how they acted. I am just worried about you,” he said and Michelangelo blinked, looking bewildered. “I am worried because, well, I know you lost your friends at Hogwarts, and you were unfairly targeted there and relentlessly bullied those last months you were there, and I know you have been dealing with a lot this past year…”

Michelangelo just blinked at him once more, slowly.

“Right, well, I just wanted to let you know that, you know, if you ever need to talk to someone who isn't your dad, someone you can trust and confide in, you can come to your Uncle Ron, okay?” he asked, backing out of the room some.

Michelangelo watched him retreat for a moment before tilting his head back towards his box and pulling out his small stereo, drawing the cord out with both hands like he was brining in a line.

-------------------------

“That kid, his eyes just slice into you,” Ron said with a cutting motion of his hand to Ginny as they stood in that same-old basement kitchen, making some supper for everyone while the kids settled and Draco dealt with some more specific details with the movers.

“He is a lot like Draco at that age,” she admitted.

“Yeah, only worse. Draco had been a little bastard, but in a way that cried out for attention. Michael is just…” he shuddered. “That kid gives me the willies.”

“Oh, come on, he's just a twelve-year-old boy!” Ginny laughed.

“You should shave his head; I bet you anything you will find a birthmark that resembles 666 there.”

“Ron! That is my boyfriend's son you are talking about!” she gasped, laughing so hard.

“You have undoubtedly been at the receiving end of one of his glairs. You know what I mean.”

“He can be rather cold, yes,” Ginny admitted.

“Cold, Merlin's arse, that kid looks positively soulless when he stares at you, into you, through you. I was talking to him and it was like no one was home, like he was just a shell. He just blinked at me and I ran from the room like a pixie with its wings torn off.”

“He is just upset.”

“So is Draco.”

“I know he is. Thank you for coming despite everything, it really means a lot to him, even if he would never admit it.”

“Yeah, well, I only have one sister,” he shrugged, already eating the ingredients for dinner and Ginny slapping his hands away whenever she caught him at it.

“How is Derry?” she finally dared to ask.

“He's fine, just a touch shook up, one spell and he was right as rain.”

“What happened after we left?” she asked.

“Well, there was a serious gloom cast over everything after that. Bill left shortly, and quite quickly everyone fallowed suit.”

“I feel so bad for Mum and Dad. They had all that food, and everything ended before supper…”

“Don't feel bad, you didn't do anything,” Ron comforted.

“Yeah, I know, but I just feel terrible, for Draco, you know?”

“Yeah, I talked with him,” he said, having spent a good portion of the day helping Draco move things since it took a lot of physical effort on Draco's part or just a flick of Ron's wand.

“What about his birthday?” she asked, placing her hand on her tummy where the baby had just kicked as though demanding a little attention too.

“Well, no one informed me of any sort of change in the plan.”

“You really think they will have a party for Draco now? After all this?”

“It is a party for Neville, Harry, and Draco, and they can't un-invite him now, no matter how upset they might be, it would just be unacceptable, Mum would never allow it. You know she finds Draco bloody adorable.”

Things had changed quite a bit in a few months, and Mrs. Weasley had been really taken by Draco's charm. Ginny knew it was that Lockheart syndrome, she could recognize it from a mile away.

“Besides,” he added, snatching a slice of carrot and avoiding Ginny's swatting hand, “It is a little less than a month away, but still, that is time, time for things to die down. It isn't like Draco did anything himself either. His kid got in a fight with one of our kids, it's bound to happen. We all fought with each other as younglings, can you really expect our fruits to be any different?”

“I guess not,” Ginny sighed. “I just wish this Malfoy-Weasley rift would just end already. You would think this new generation would be the first to see past all that.”

“You and Draco are like Romeo and Juliet, only without the suicide. It's kind of romantic if you think about it,” he teased and Ginny chucked a carrot at him.

“Like you would know romance if I came up and bit you on the nose,” she laughed. Reaching over she grabbed a glass, its contents steaming, and took a hefty gulp before making a repulsed face and setting the glass down to gag and cough a little.

“Is Wolfsbane really that awful?” he asked, eyeing the putrid liquid wearily. He had suffered though Polyjuice before, and honestly, they looked about as disgusting, it could quite very well be a toss up which was more revolting.

“Care to try some?” she offered, making to grab the glass but Ron holding his hands up quickly.

“I'm alright, thanks.”

“Yeah, I wish I could pass on it myself,” she sighed, holding her stomach while taking another gulp as she had the glass in her hand again.

“You know for a fact that it will be…”

“Yeah,” she sighed.

“Are you okay with that?” he asked as delicately as possible.

“What? What do you mean by that? Am I okay with that meaning what?” she barked.

“No, I meant nothing by it.”

“Just that you can't see how I can not care that my child is going to be a werewolf. Tell me, Ronald, what is so wrong with being a werewolf?”

“I didn't mean it like that; I meant it in the sense of how hard it is on the individual. It is a disease…I was just wondering how you were handling it…” he said but trailed off as Ginny started to cry. Anger was replaced by tears so quickly; much was the way of pregnant women.

“I am doing all I can, it all just depends on when the date of birth lands. If it is right after the full moon it should be fine. If it falls before the full moon, however, within the two weeks that precede it, the baby won't make it. There just wouldn't be enough time to build up some strength for the first change,” she sobbed. Ron discarded his carrot to give his sister a hug, a long, drawn out, rocking hug.

“It will be alright. You have been taking that Wolfsbane everyday, just like Draco and the kids do, so the baby will have it in its system. He or she will be born with plenty of days to spare before the full moon and all will be fine,” he assured.

“They are going to induce labor if they have to, but it has all got me so scared. Even if everything goes to plan, it is still an uncertain road for the first few months,” she sobbed.

“Michael and Claire made it.”

“But with all that I have already been through…”

“Don't even go there. Don't you even think on that,” Ron said firmly, pulling Ginny away to hold her at arm's length and look her resolutely in the eyes. “Don't you blame yourself for that, and don't you worry about it now. You have made it this far, and Draco is here with you, as am I, as is the rest of the family.”

“I don't feel like the rest of them are with me on this…”

“They are.”

Ron hugged Ginny again, but after a moment chuckled because of how awkward it was with her tummy between them. Ginny was able to sniff back her tears as Ron gazed down at her belly.

“You know, I keep forgetting how big you are getting, since I have been seeing more of Hermione and Harry lately, and she is quite a bit smaller than you.”

“Yeah, it doesn't seem fair,” Ginny pouted, hand on her tummy, lower back aching, legs tired as she went back to stirring the stew.

“Well, has it occurred to you that maybe you are having, oh, I don't know, twins?” he asked and Ginny's head snapped over at him with wide eyes as she practically gasped.

“Don't say that, don't even joke!” she said as she tossed a handful of salt over her shoulder while standing on one foot and then spinning in place to try and cancel the jinx. Ron just laughed at her. One baby was enough trouble; the idea of two was just insane.

---------------------

Movers and workers gone until morning, Ron having headed home, everyone now fed, Ginny was sitting on the edge of the large bed she would now be sharing with Draco, in the master bedroom on the top floor, a room where Buckbeak had once resided. Draco had had the floor ripped out and replaced and the walls stripped and re-plastered to try and get rid of the smell. The floor was not finished yet, it still needed to be stained and waxed and buffed and smoothed, and the molding put along the walls. The wall paper turned out to not be as thrilling up as it had looked in the sample book, which lead to Draco having started on putting dark wood paneling up, but it was only half finished. The paneling would only reach halfway up the wall once finished, and the portion above that the wallpaper still resided, not as terrible when not covering the entirety of the space. Green with narrow black pinstripes…it was the last time he would let his mother pick out any of the decorum.

Ginny was nude and just sitting there, achy and tired and just taking a breather. It was much too warm upstairs for her usual nightgown, but then again, she was often hot regardless of where she was. Draco had admitted it was awfully stuffy up there, however and assured her that the central-air would be up and running soon. Draco crawled up behind her silently, a little more dressed -though barely- and curled up against her, rubbing her shoulders.

“Mmm, hey Dre,” she moaned, appreciating his gesture more than she would ever be able to verbalize.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, something he asked often. He ran his hands lower to massage her lower back where he knew she was always aching and she groaned in relief as she closed her eyes.

“Just tired.”

“It was a long day.”

“The first of many to come,” she said, knowing that there wasn't a room in the house finished yet and they hadn't even started the nursery. There was this big rift between them on how to go about decorating it. They wouldn't know what they were having until he or she popped out of Ginny, so they could not go with the traditional blue or pink with cute button animals and pastel colors, but Ginny was fond of the idea of primary colors and a sort of rainbow theme that was not gender biased and very cheery, and Draco was partial towards a more classic and neutral white, calming and clean looking.

It was just one of many things they just could not agree on, both too stubborn to ever compromise.

“We got a lot done today,” he said, rubbing his thumbs deep into her muscles and skin in a well-practiced fashion.

“I would love for the water to be working, I want a shower,” she griped though in a way that was teasing because she knew how hard Draco was working on getting the piping in the old house working and she was trying to make it seem like she was completely unappreciative just to be irritating.

“I will be working more on that in the morning,” he assured, kissing her neck and ending his massaging. He flopped down beside her, face first. “Okay, my turn,” he said, it how apparent that he was offering his back to get rubbed and Ginny just laughed at him in a “don't kid yourself” manner and just swatted his exposed back with a feather pillow. “Come on, I worked hard today too, I'm achy. Do I not deserve a bit of rubbing?” he pouted up at her as he wiggled his bum.

Ginny just reached under the pillow and ran her fingertips over the skin of his side, causing him to leap up and eep. She had learned some months ago now that Draco was terribly ticklish, and she had tickle-tortured him many-a-time.

“No, stop, you horrid wench,” he begged as she tried to tickle him. They certainly had an interesting relationship. Calling each other “worthless whores” and “prats” and “egotistical bastards” was just their way of saying “I love you, dear”. Most couples would just never understand that, but it was just how they were, and they couldn't change one another no matter how they had each respectively tried.

Draco grabbed Ginny's wrist and yanked her off balance, rolling and pinning her down on the bed, arms above her head, and him throwing a leg over her to be sitting on her thighs, his body looming over her, her belly right there between them. He looked more satisfied with this arraignment than she did given what Ginny could see happening beneath his green boxers.

“I have a headache,” she said flatly, still teasing, but also honest.

Draco just leaned in to give her a kiss, honestly too exhausted himself but unable to pass up the opportunity to tease her, just a little bit. It was their first night in their new home after all.

Once asleep, however, Draco recalled his first night in a very different place, and it was a vastly less enjoyable experience.

Draco kicked and fought against his captors the entire walk down the long hallway, screaming and shouting in desperation. He was screaming “no” and “please” mostly, periodically crying for his mother, or expressing his frantic desire to go home. The two men that held him were much larger, however, and needn't try hard to control the struggling boy. They marched -or practically carried- him down the hall silently on their parts, this being routine for them and thus their numbness to the hysterical emotions erupting from the distraught boy. They had never dealt with someone as young as him before, but he was classified as a high-risk inmate, and he was not to be granted any leniency, or underestimated, regardless of his size.

“No, please! No, don't take me there! Please, please, please!” he screamed, trying to rip his arms free of the guards but unsuccessful and just exhausting himself more and more the further they got. “Please, I want my mother, please, I want to go home…” he sobbed.

Draco was jerked into the room they had finally reached and the door was slammed shut behind the two men who now drew their wands. They were not to use such tools except as a last resort in self-defense, but they were dealing with a werewolf, so they took whatever precautions they felt necessary.

Draco was on his hands and knees for only a moment before scurrying up onto his feet and turning on the men, backing up into the corner and looking around. His tear-streaked face was a little dirty from the cloud of filth that had wafted up when he had been thrown down. He was shaking all over, looking to try and orient himself but unsure of where he was. He had been taken by Portkey to what he feared to be Azkaban, but he wasn't sure if he was at that final destination yet or not. All he knew was he was in a stone room, with a large mirror set into the opposite wall, and a harsh light hung over him. Two men were in there, and there were two metal doors with barred square windows, one he had just be lead through, and another opposite that that he had no clue where it went.

Shaking, cold, and frightened, Draco looked at the two armed men and kept them in front of him, but that put the second door to his back, and it was then that it latched loudly and opened. He was instantly panting as he spun around, now facing the mirror so that the men were on his right and the people coming in through the door where on his left, the empty wall to his back.

“Please…”

“Welcome to Azkaban, Mr. Malfoy,” the tallest of the new arrivals announced. The woman was stern and harsh looking, her uniform crisp, cheekbones high and mouth small. Her hair was short and slicked back like she wanted to be viewed no differently than the men, her hands folded behind her in a confident sort of stance. On either side of her were two more men, tall in their own right but non comparable to the looming woman.

Draco looked at her, his breath caught in his throat as the welcome registered in his mind. He was there. This couldn't be, he couldn't be there. He had been promised…no, this was not right, he had nearly died helping in the overthrow of the Dark Lord, he couldn't be here in Azkaban now, no. His trial was not over. Surely he had appeals; surely this was just a misunderstanding.

“Please allow us to carry out the standard strip search and examination with little fuss, it will make the whole experience so much less stressful on all of us, particularly you,” she said, the men at her back moving forward as thought that was their cue to begin. Draco backed up, looking ready to flee, there being no where to go not stopping him from trying to run. He was grabbed by the arm which caused him to kick out instantly and ball up a first, ready to punch the man who had a hold on him, but that arm too was then grabbed.

The men said nothing, their faces blank. Draco screamed as he was picked up and tossed down onto the floor in the center of the room again, his shirt pulled off over his head and ripped from his arms. Draco shouted, and kicked, and struggled despite the civil request to remain calm though this and the woman did nothing to hush him. She stood unaffected by this display as Draco was disrobed friskily and left to curl up over himself on the floor, his skin and hair so fair making him stand out with the florescent light shining down on him that he looked like a small white rabbit, shaking and fretful.

It was so cold, and Draco didn't want to look up at anyone in the room as he crouched there, naked, but screamed as he was grabbed by the hair and pushed down so he was kneeling rather than balancing on the balls of his feet. He didn't know what was happening then until he saw a chunk of his shoulder-length hair fall to the stone floor before him. He looked at it for a long moment before then struggling again. One man held his face, another held his shoulders, and a third used a Severing Charm as he ran his wand tip along Draco's scalp like a pair of shears, shaving away his hair one long stroke at a time.

Draco felt his hair drifting down his back and collecting on his shoulders, and saw hunks of it landing on the hands that held his face, and there it remained for him to stare at. He started to sob again, and the men seemed deaf to him. When they released him he just sat there, sobbing, not making to move until he was suddenly doused in cold water. He screamed and tried to scurry out of the wash, but the jets of water followed him from the wand tips, and washed away his sheared hair, and freed the dirt that had clung to his body. The hair rushed with the water towards the drain that it then clogged, and Draco was left naked, bald, and soaking wet. He was grabbed, and a sort of tape measure appeared in the air beside him, taking down his detentions, such and height, and he was then lifted for a brief moment by some kind of spell that levitated him, and his weight was then recorded too. His body was roughly checked over for marks such as moles and distinctive freckles or birthmarks, his scars were all numbered and recorded, his tattoo documented and residual Dark Mark probed, and all was photographed.

Still disoriented, and shivering, as well as feeling shamed and violated, an armful of clothing was thrust at him and without being given a chance to dress Draco was marched from the room. He was instructed to dress himself as they walked, and he did so quite readily, not out of modesty at that point but out of pure desire to get warm. The outfit was a sort of rough burlap, grey and black striped. The pants were overly long so his bare feet were still inside the pant leg as he walked (which served to actually help keep them warm since he had gotten no shoes or socks) and the shirt was long sleeved, the sleeves reaching past his fingertips, and had a hood attached which he pulled up over his baldness to try and fight off the cold.

“You will be placed in the non-human cells of block C, where everything from Goblins to Vampires are kept. You will have only thirty minutes out of your cell a day and that time will include any showering you do. You will receive two meals a day, one warm, one cold. Breakfast is typically cold, and dinner will be something warm. If you do not care for the food then you will go hungry, we are not running a catering service here. Once a month you will be allowed outside your cell block and taken to a courtyard in the center of the prison where, under strict supervision, you will be allowed to intermingle with other prisoners. This will be the first privilege you will lose should you misbehave, and it will not be extended back too readily,” she explained her tone harsh and mechanical, like she was reading off a well rehearsed mental list. Draco trotted along to keep up with her long strides and quick pace, shivering still, two guards before him, two behind them, the woman leading the way.

“You will be allowed visitation once every two weeks, for an hour at a time, no more, no acceptations. You will not be allowed any personal affects in your cell for the first six months you are here. You will be under twenty-four hour surveillance in that time, and once it is deemed safe, you are allowed certain approved objects, no books, nothing that can be unraveled, nothing that can be sharpened, nothing that is reflective, nothing that contains metal, glass, or undermined materials, and under no circumstances anything magical. Understood?”

“Please…I…”

“Furthermore,” the woman pressed on, not allowing Draco to say anything, “You will be provided with all the necessities, blankets and such. Do not ask for additional blankets, cushions, or clothing, it will only result in what you do have being removed from your position. Things like tooth brushes, combs, and tools for trimming hair and nails will be kept by the guards and you can only use said objects while under supervision. This implies that you will not be showering alone, we have community showers here with posted guards, five inmates at a time, no talking allowed,” she said and Draco's head was down, tears running down his cheeks.

“Things are different here now that there are no Dementors. We run a strict regiment and it is expected to be followed without dispute. Days start at seven and go until nine. Cell checks are random but frequent. Since you have tried to kill yourself in the past you are on suicide watch, and you will be subject to random body searches to be sure that you are not harming yourself. I will be by personally to check on you once a week and to record your progress. You are a special needs inmate, and given your condition, you will be provided with Wolfsbane by a certified Healer. For your transformation, however, you will be lead to a specially equipped holding cell, and you will be run through the procedure of transportation for that event in the morning. Now,” she said, stopping and turning to look at Draco, Draco refusing to look at her. “The first night is rough, but do try and get some sleep because we will be running you through the paces in the morning.”

Draco had a rough and flimsy blanket thrust into his arms along with a cushion that was barely and inch and a half thick. He was grabbed by the shoulders and shoved forward into a cell and the doors were immediately slammed shut on their track behind him with a defining and dreadful clang.

“Nighty-night, princess,” a singular guard finally said to him, speaking for the first time, heading off in the direction the rest had gone, leaving Draco to stand there in his eight by eight cell. Draco looked around and saw something that resembled a bucket in the corner but with a sort of toilet seat fashioned to it, and a harsh wooden shelf projecting from the wall at about the level that would suggest that it was the bed. There was a window high up on the wall, high enough that he had no hope of reaching it even if he were to stand on the bed-shelf, meaning he wouldn't be able to see outside, but he could see some moonlight pouring in, along with some drifts of snow.

Draco shivered, and took a deep quivering breath like he was trying to come to grips with everything, trying to take this like a man, to deal with this, but a soft sob escaped him, followed quickly by another. There he stood, his cushion and blanket still folded and hugged to his chest as he slowly lifted one foot and then the other off the cold stone floor, weeping.

Why had this happened? What had gone so terribly wrong? Where was Potter? Where was McGonagall? Where was Ginny? Surely Ginny knew the truth, she had saved his life, she had been there, she had kissed him. Where was she? Why hadn't Harry been at his trial, why had McGonagall testified against him after she had promised to aid in pardoning him? Why hadn't Granger been told the truth of what had happened by Harry, or Ginny?

Where was his mother?

Draco was crying now. Not sobbing, not weeping, he was crying. He couldn't do anything else with himself. He felt sick, but he hadn't eaten in so long that he had nothing to throw up, he was cold, but he couldn't do anything about it. He was alone, and it seemed like it was going to be that way for the next ten to twenty years.

Draco cried.

“Are you crying?” a woman with a heavy Scottish accent asked, causing Draco to gasp at her sudden words, him having thought he was alone. He spun around in place to be facing the wall of his cell that consisted of open iron bars and saw that the wall opposite him in that long corridor that made up his cell block was also lined with cells, so he could see directly into them. It didn't look like there was going to be much privacy. What shocked him secondly was that it had been a woman that had spoken to him. They did not segregate the women from the men here? Would he have a woman seeing into his cell and him into hers?

The cells were staggered, so each one was across from two halves. The cell across from him and on the left was empty, but the cell on the right was apparently occupied. It was shadowy, and Draco backed up into the shadow of his own as the woman came into the light of hers.

“Hey, I asked you a question. It's rude not to answer, one might question your upbringing,” she scolded, or possibly mocked, Draco could not tell as he hid further in the corner of his cell that she would be unable to see him from. “Oh, come on now,” she said and Draco just hugged his knees as he perched on his shelf.

Who was she? She didn't sound like a Goblin, maybe she was a Vampire. What if she was a werewolf like him? He didn't care to find out one way or another. Murderers, liars, criminals were in this prison. She was here, clearly she had done something bad, and he wasn't about to make acquaintance with someone here already.

“Talk to me, please? You are the only other person on the block at the moment, and I have been here for months alone with no one but the charming guards to talk to,” she pleaded, still sounding rather bossy. Draco sniffed a little, his nose now running from the cold rather than just his tears. “Why are you crying?” she asked.

“I am not crying,” Draco barked stubbornly, his voice carrying the very obvious and unmistakable sign that he actually had been.

“There, I got you talking,” she beamed. “Come on, come out, let's have a look at you,” she demanded, snapping her fingers at him. Draco looked towards the edge of his cell as though considering it, but then hugged his knees tighter.

“I will see you now or later, your crapper is in my line of sight,” she said and Draco looked over at the bucket, then back at his bars and was suddenly very grumpy. “Come on, come out, first impressions are important and yours is weak.”

Draco sighed. He had a feeling that this woman, whoever she was, would be unrelenting in this until he made an appearance, and she was right, she would see him eventually.

“You can't hide in that corner forever…oh, there you are,” she said as Draco had scooted his butt across his shelf-bed so he was up against the bars now and able to peek out them and be seen by the woman as well as take her in.

She was standing there in an outfit identical to his but a little better fitting, with her hands on her hips and chest out. She seemed exceedingly tall, and her posture was confident, her hair was wild. Her head looked like it was on fire with the crazed froth of vibrant red curls that crowned her head and cascaded down her back. It was obvious that it was unkempt but would have been positively lovely should she have been allowed to manage it. Her eyes were greener than a cat's, her skin milky-fair, and lips full. She was very striking, despite her thinness, though Draco could see that her chest was quite full and free of anything that would contain it, the fact that she was chilled under that shirt of hers quite obvious and causing Draco to blush slightly and look away.

“Merlin, what are you, twelve?” she asked, clearly exaggerating but conveying quite plainly her shock in how young Draco clearly was. “I can hardly see you sitting there all curled up, come on, let's have a look,” she said, snapping her fingers at him again, but Draco unmoving. She placed her hands back on her hips and looked at him for a long moment before sighing. “Speak, I know you can. Come on, speak, speak,” she demanded, snapping at him each time. He didn't. “My name is Christina,” she offered, in a much kinder tone than one she had yet used. She was clearly trying to entice Draco into some kind of conversation, but he seemed a little less than keen. “This is the part where you give me your name,” she explained, a guard's call suddenly carrying down the corridor.

“Lights out in five minutes, there will be no talking from that point on,” he said and Christina turned back to Draco, time now a factor.

“Come on…”

“Draco,” he answered, cutting her off. She looked at him, and Draco unfolded himself slightly so he could be seen a little better, and he repeated his name. “My name is Draco.”

She nodded, looking at him and taking in his name.

“Hello Draco, it is very nice to meet you,” Christina said in a way that was far too perky for the setting. “What are you in for?” she asked, plopping down on her own bed-shelf then and wrapping up in her blankets (she seemed to have more than him) clearly preparing for bed while they still had light. When Draco didn't answer she looked at him and only saw him looking down and a tear sliding down his cheek. “How long you in for?” she asked, deciding to try for that instead.

“Ten to twenty,” he said very softly but still easily heard in the otherwise silent block, the distant sound of the crashing sea below them all that drifted in.

“Damn, you did find yourself in some trouble,” she said with much conviction and sympathy. “I'm here for attempted murder and kidnapping. Been here for nearly ten years,” she said, throwing a blanket over her feet, clearly taking the extra time to make sure those in specific stayed warm.

“How old…” Draco attempted to ask but then stopped himself and just plopped down on his bed-shelf, hugging his knees again and pressing his lips to them. It wasn't polite to ask a lady how old she was.

“How old am I?” she asked for him. “I am thirty-three,” she said, smiling down at herself as though knowing the discomfort Draco had caused himself in almost asking. “You?” she asked, glad that he had set himself to have to answer this question for her now given how readily she had given it up to him.

“Nearly eighteen,” he said, though that was not true, he would not be eighteen until June and it was only January at the moment. Still, it sounded better than saying seventeen.

“Wait, you are seventeen?” she asked and Draco's head drooped so that his hood blocked the side of his face from her. “Well, fuck,” she said, lying down then but still talking. “You will be twenty seven when you get out of here then, if you are lucky, huh?” she asked, as though she was somehow being optimistic. She was answered with only a soft sob from Draco's cell as the guard announced it was lights out and all became dark.

------------------------

Ginny and Hermione sat on the couch together, large pregnant bellies bouncing in their laughter and giggles as they watched a scene play out before them on the telly, recorded a little over a week ago now. It was an odd view of the world for it was through the lens of a camera and therefore eliminated all peripheral vision so that everything seemed tight and focused within the frame.

Draco was working in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, the sunlight bright for the first time in probably the history of the home because he had taken down the curtains for a brutal laundering and most probable replacing. Things had nested in that house in the years it had stood unoccupied. The window glass was new, but styled much like the originals had appeared in their prime, with black iron molding and bits of angular green glass pieced in here or there. The floors were freshly sanded, and large sheets of clear plastic were placed all over, the contractors not coming in to finish the floors with a dark stain for another few nights still and then the waxing team not coming in until next week. There was still a ton needing to be done before the floors were finished, however, like the walls. Draco didn't want to still be painting and plastering by the time the wood was finished and polished, but the rate of everything else was not up to speed with the floors.

It was a serious headache.

Draco was engrossed in his task at hand and did not notice that in zoomed someone from behind him.

The picture shook every once in a while, and the sound was muffled by hands shifting on the camera itself, the cinematographer a novice to say the least.

“Hey there, you,” Ginny, her voice disembodied from behind the lens, said causing Draco to turn and then smile with narrowed eyes upon seeing what Ginny obviously had in her hands and pointed at him.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“What?” Ginny asked innocently, zooming in on Draco to the point where it was nearly unflattering, clearly trying out buttons she had no clue as to their function.

“The camera,” he said, trying to lean out of frame right and left slightly but Ginny marking him.

“It was in a box of your things Tonks knocked over. I didn't know you had a camera,” she laughed, Draco giving up on trying to dodge the lens and just turning his back as though to ignore its presence, going back to work cleaning the dusty heating grate that was floor level on the wall. “Where did you get it?” she then posed the question right back at him, recording him as he worked.

“It was a Christmas gift a few years ago, from my Uncle Ted,” he said simply, back to her, hair pulled into a thick ponytail that would swing if he were walking but just rested against his back and fanned out a bit as he leaned over.

“You, with a Muggle camera, it's too hilarious.”

“I do not see why, I lived in a Muggle apartment for three years, I had a telephone, I watched the telly, I drove a car,” he said, a little indignant as he pulled cobwebs and dead pixies out of the duct and tossed them in the pail beside him.

“I guess it is only funny from my perspective,” she said, her perspective being from the camera still as she moved around him, panning slowly.

“Stop,” he laughed, looking over his shoulder to notice Ginny still recording him, some shorter pieces of his pale hair escaping his hair-tie to hang in his face, not a curl, kink, or wave to it as he used the back of his hand to wipe the hairs and some sweat away.

“I'm not filming, stop being a baby.”

“Yes you are, I can see the little red light blinking.” He glared.

“Oh.”

“Stop,” he said, reaching up to try and push the lens down but Ginny backing up, the camera's picture shaking quite a bit.

“Do something cute,” she demeaned, walking backwards and zooming back out to get a full view of him, a safe distance now across the room as he stood to stretch his back some while looking sore, which he always was but probably stiff now too from cleaning vents and ducts all morning.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Come on,” Ginny teased, zooming in so the picture was blurry for a moment before coming to focus on Draco from about the shoulders up.

Draco blew Ginny a little kiss with his lips, no hands, to appease her and Ginny laughed in her gratitude.

The picture went black for a second as Ginny and Hermione giggled from their seats, and came back to reveal another room, or what one would assume be another room, the picture just zoomed in on Draco's bum so the rest was hard to tell and was merely assumed. Ginny, from on camera unable to contain her giggles, caused the picture to shake as her once again disembodied voice carried across the picture.

“What? Will you stop playing with that already? Haven't we enough work to do without you goofing off?” Draco protested, his voice too drifting from off camera since all that was on camera was that hinny of his and contrary to popular belief; he did not talk out of his arse.

“My back hurts so I am taking a break. You would work your pregnant girlfriend into the grave, wouldn't you,” she accused, zooming out a little but Draco's bum still very focal in the shot as he squatted in the kitchen, arms up under the sink as he torked a wrench to fix the leaking pipe. Draco was not the best handyman in the world, but for a wizard working by Muggle means with awkward Muggle tools he was quite good. He was reliable because of his stubborn determination to get something right and make sure it worked properly no matter how long it took. The knees of his blue denims were wet, as were the fronts of his thighs, like he had knelt in water but had also been sprayed more than a few times. The wet splatter on his blue shirt was more evidence to the fact. Draco looked delicious in blue; it made his eyes look shockingly blue rather than grey or silver. She approved.

“Well, if you are just going to stand there, could you hand me that?” Draco asked, what he was pointing to off camera but Ginny shifting to reach it and hand it to him, her hand coming around into frame for a brief moment to offer it to Draco. “Thank you,” he said, such etiquette second nature to him.

“If you are a plumber, shouldn't your trousers be drooping a bit more?” she asked, reaching down to pull at the seat of his pants in hopes of causing them to fall a bit. Draco reached back quickly to catch his waistband before the full moon could even begin to break the horizon of his denims.

“Stop that, leave my trousers alone,” he grumbled, Ginny still tugging at them until she was satisfied with the tiniest peek of crack she managed to expose before Draco was able to yank them up and swat her away, threatening her with the wrench held aloft. She liked him better in his tight (and she meant tight) black denims, but the baggier blue ones he wore while doing projects around the house were fun too because his knickers tended to peak out due to the larger denims riding so low around his narrow hips. His boxers were red. She approved.

Draco was still only a hundred and twenty-five at best, and she was trying to get him to gain more weight, but he seemed to have gained as much weight as he wanted. He had seemed horrified when he got -in his words- “tubby around the tummy” and had been going to the gym every other day on top of work and fixing up the house, to try and get a firmer physic. He was threatening to work himself into exhaustion since Lycanthropy sucked a lot of life out of him to begin with, but Draco would not hear Ginny's concerns. He tried to pretend he wasn't vain, but he was, he really was. But how could she complain, he had put on a little weight like she had wanted, and now he seemed to be on his way to chiseled abs. She approved.

The picture was shaky, and Hermione -who was watching this all on the television still- laughed at that point, having gotten to see just the barest glimpse of Draco's little naked hinny and unable to deny that she enjoyed the sight. Draco pouted at the camera.

“I have to admit, he is rather sweet when he doesn't think anyone is around to catch him at it,” Hermione said, still watching the film that Ginny had made of the move and remodel, which was turning out to basically be a montage of glimpses of Draco about the house, cleaning, fixing things, cracking his knuckles, pulling back his hair while his shirt was off making focal his newly developing muscular (though still very thin) torso and arms, all the while oblivious to the fact that he had an audience. With his shirt off, his scars from Greyback were plain to see as they raked over the flesh on his left side, dimpling the muscles in his arm somewhat. He had a scar above his navel which he called his “second bellybutton”, where he had been run through, but his maturing pecks (despite his protruding sternum) were distraction enough from those flaws, as was his snow white skin that dazzled in the sunlight coming in from the nearby window, the slight shine due to sweat. It was quite warm out, as was evidence of Draco's half dressed state. He had to be damn hot to shed not only his clothing but his propriety. The problem was that the house was stuffy, particularly when he was doing manual labor. Ginny liked watching Draco do manual labor and saw no “problem” in him wearing less clothing. She approved.

“Oh, he is a cutie when he lets himself be,” Ginny said, just as she herself appeared on the screen. She moaned, Hermione interested and watching as she leaned forward some to see what was happening now. She had the remote so Ginny could not turn it off.

“Ah-ha,” Draco proclaimed from the television, his voice disembodied this time as Ginny was the one in front of the lens this time around. “Now the tables have turned, how does it feel?” he asked as Ginny tried to hide from view and cover her face. She wasn't in make-up, her hair was a mess, and she was fat. How could Draco do this to her!

“Stop, stop! Don't film me, don't you know the camera adds ten pounds!?” she cried while Draco laughed.

“I now know why you were filming me then. Come on, do something cute,” he demanded, mocking her then. Ginny looked up at him, right into the lens, and flipped him off. “Oh, now that is not nice, or cute. What will you say, one day, when I show this to our grandchildren?”

“You won't live long enough to show them if you don't turn that thing of,” she warned, swatting at it and Draco pointing it down at the floor while backing up, his shuffling feet all that was in frame at the moment, that and the dusty hardwood.

“This is evidence, court evidence. Your domestic abuse is documented,” he laughed as Ginny slapped at him more.

“Prat, prat, prat,” she repeated as he laughed, his hand coming in and out of view as she slapped at him and mostly the camera and he blocked them.

Hermione was laughing quite hard while watching this, Ginny too as well but she was hiding her face while doing so.

“Come on,” Draco laughed.

“Turn that off,” she demanded, smiling despite herself.

“Alright, alright,” he said but the picture did not cut.

“I said turn it off…”

“It is.”

“No, it isn't, I can see that damn little red light thing,” she accused and Draco laughed as he really did turn it off that time.

“Like I was saying,” Hermione said as the picture on the television remained black, “quite cute.”

“Jealous?” Ginny teased.

“Nope,” Hermione said smugly, and very readily.

“Liar,” Ginny accused.

“I have Harry and I am more than happy,” she said, honest about her happiness as she placed her hand on her pregnant belly, but unable to deny that Draco, despite himself and the fact that he always looked like he was just recovering from the flu, he was quite handsome and, well, a delight to gaze at.

“Harry is a nice bloke, but I must admit, Draco is more fun.”

“In what way?” Hermione asked.

“Harry is up tight. Draco is too, but in a manners and propriety sort of way. Despite all he has been through, he is still willing to dance around the living room and make a fool of himself to get a laugh out of his children.”

Hermione laughed, “I would like to see that,”

“I have it on tape somewhere, but I think he would kill me, with child or not, if I showed it to you of all people. It is something meant for his children's eyes only me thinks,” she said, shaking her head slowly but laughing softly too.

“Speaking of children…” Hermione said, sobering considerable, Ginny sighing.

“Michael is still not talking…to any of us.”

“Not even Draco? It's been a week.”

“I know, Draco is really torn up over it. He thinks he was too harsh.”

“Hardly. He had every right to be mad at Michael. Michael now making Draco feel bad is probably some ploy to try and get Draco to retract his threat to ground him for the summer,” Hermione theorized.

“Yeah, I told Draco that too, thus why Draco has been unrelenting in his sentence, but it's really tearing him up. He is getting a lot of work done around the house as, I think, a means of distracting himself, but I'm worried that he is just going to exhaust himself. All he needs it so be depressed and then stuck in bed where no work would be getting done,” she sighed.

“He's at the gym at the moment?”

“Yeah, with Ron,” Ginny sighed.

“I wouldn't worry too much, really.”

“It's just hard not to.”

“Have you talked to your mum?”

“Yeah…”

“And?”

“She isn't mad, well, not at Draco at least. Ron was right, everyone is seriously calming down given some time, but it is still walking on eggshells until I talk to George. He seems really upset still.”

“He will come around. He and Fred are two that Draco really did seem to grow on,” Hermione reassured, Ginny just taking a deep breath and sighing.

-------------------------

Author's Note/Summery:

We got to see my new-take of Number Twelve…hope you liked. Ron showed up to help (I can't help it, I <3 him just a little) and he interacted with Michael in a classic (and soon to be standard) way. Claire-monster loves her Uncle Ron. <33 We see some of Draco's concerns, and for the first time realize that they coincide with Ginny's rather closely. Yay for Ginny/Ron bonding. Yes, Draco deserves a bit of rubbing. :]

This chapter would totally be named “Draco's Worst Memory” if I in fact named my chapters. Ode to Snape there me thinks? Poor Dre. Draco's memory was one of the first scenes I ever wrote having to do with this series, so it means a certain something special to me. I put a lot of thought into how a prisoner would be treated, how a werewolf would be treated.

We met Christina, what did we think? More of her to come.

The scene with the video camera is another very old scene, something that had been cooking for a while, and it was fluff, so be proud of me. Draco is a cutie, we all knew it, now I have the proof on camera.

-->

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.

-->

Fallen Angel

Chapter 05

Draco was not building up to the coming full moon in high spirits or in a good mood. The tension in the house had shot up to a seemingly impossible new high since Michelangelo's apprehension by Muggle police. This time, however, it wasn't Michelangelo avoiding the family out of spite, but out of fear. He was in trouble and a serious amount of it it seemed, and he was making himself scarce as a result. Draco's desire to keep the matter private was most certainly foolery. The wizarding press had caught wind of the troubles in the Malfoy household and was quick to jump in with their own rendition of events and their own speculations.

“Michael Malfoy Arrested for Terrorizing Muggles” the headline read, underneath expanding to say “Does Ginny, Draco Malfoys pureblooded prize, know what she is getting into?” while then continuing into an article that depicted Michelangelo in the worst light possible, citing students from the school who accounted the instances that Michelangelo had squabbled with them (like any typical student really but made out to be something far worse,) and the occasion where he had used the egregious term “Mudblood” and had received a stern reprimand. It spoke of Michelangelo being a “problem child” for some months in regards to his acceptance of his father's new girlfriend and his rejection of the Weasley family, saying he didn't “feel them worthy” to be a part of his family, all which was unsubstantiated but no one reading it thinking to question it. The article then went on to speculate as to who Michelangelo's mother was because, as of yet, it was not known with whom Draco had produced himself two children, and Draco would like nothing more than to keep it that way.

The account of the “parking lot incident” was written up to be sensational, meaning very little about it was true, and no Muggles had actually been “terrorized,” but the article was accurate in saying that there was a serious issue in the Malfoy household. Though Michelangelo was not the entire root of it like what was being claimed this week, it was hard for Draco to face to public and press and try and act like everything was fine and dandy.

“I am not defending him, but you have to admit, the reason why he would end up doing this, and Clarissa would not, is not because you are a bad father, or him a bad seed, but because girls simply have more of a sense of consequence than boys” Ginny tried to comfort. “I would know, I have six brothers,” she said, being as lighthearted but as serious as she could manage at the same time.

“I just don't know what to do,” Draco groaned, so wishing he could just curl up in a ball and cry and when he was finished everything would be okay; but life was not that simple, not anymore, not since he was a little boy.

“Michelangelo needs to be dealt with firmly, but you know better than anybody how he truly feels. Does he feel terrible just because he was caught and frets the trouble he's in, or does he honestly feel bad about sneaking out and such?” she asked, as delicately as possible.

“He hates that he is in so much trouble, and is scared shitless of what's going to happen to him, but he understood the seriousness of the situation long before he got picked up. He seemed oblivious to his destruction, it all being fun and games, until he cracked that window. He seemed to have sobered up at that point a whole lot while the other boys just got all the more riled,” Draco explained, running his hand through his long hair.

“So you see? He is not a bad kid, like I said, just no sense of consequence. What are you going to do? I mean, ground him yes, do whatever is court mandated yes, but…”

“But what?” Draco asked.

“You think that is enough?” she asked.

Draco took a deep breath and said nothing for along moment. Ginny thought he wasn't going to answer him, so she made to speak again, but he chose then to reply.

“When I was seven, or possibly eight -I can't remember- I had a broom that I loved more than life itself. It was expensive, and I cherished it, but I was not allowed to ride it in the house. That summer it was so wet, rained every day, and I was not allowed out in the rain because my mother was convinced I would get deathly ill, so I had a serious affliction of cabin fever and a top-of-the-line broom I couldn't ride,” he said, Ginny not sure where this story was gong but sure it was in some way relevant, that he would be answering her question. Draco never talked about his childhood, so Ginny dared not interrupt, though there was a heavy sense of dread that came with this tale. “Disregarding my father's orders led me to crashing into a particularly prized trinket of some sort or another, and breaking it. I tried to hide what I had done like any child would, but I was of course caught. My father was furious. He was angry that I had not listened to him, that I had damaged something he cherished, and then tried to cover it up.”

“What happened?”

“He threw me into a wall, in anger after giving me a firm shake, and broke my arm,” Draco said dully. “I was patched up within the hour by our residential healer, but my father was so horrified that he had hurt me in such a way, he let me get away with murder for a long time after that. Part of the reason I was such a handful was because I lacked a lot of discipline and the only kind I did receive was disproportionably harsh.”

“You have never hurt Michelangelo,” Ginny said, though not positive about this because she had only been part of their lives for the last six months, but Draco was certainly looking torn up.

“No, but I have my father's same damn temper. I have never raised a hand to either of my children in anger, but I'm afraid the effect is still the same. I am so terrified of hurting them, like my father was with me, that I just don't discipline them at all. Clarissa is sweet as sugar-pops right now, so it's a non-issue, but now that Michelangelo is being more of a handful, I can't seem to control him. I seem to swing back and forth from being too harsh to letting him get away with murder, just like my father had been with me,” he admitted, running his hands through his hair and leaving them there to grip his roots.

“And because things went so badly for you, you fear that Michael is heading that same way,” Ginny said and Draco refused to look at her. “Your father was not a bad father, and nor are you,” she comforted, knowing that was exactly what Draco was feeling at the moment, at least in regards to himself. “Boys will be boys, like my parents always said. Yes, that led to my brothers getting away with a lot more than I ever could because they were boys so `what can you expect?' but they didn't turn out terrible either. Michael made one really big mistake, but it's almost a good thing that it is out of his system now, early. You caught him, and he seems remorseful, and so long as you don't cheat him on the punishment, he will learn from this, Draco, he really will.”

“But the papers, he hasn't seen them, but he will.”

“The papers say a lot of terrible things about you, me, and a lot of other people. He knows already that what they write is not true…”

“But he also knows how much such lies bother each of us, so how can you expect him to be unbothered by stories he reads about himself when we avoid the papers as we do?” Draco asked.

“I don't know how to make this better, Draco,” Ginny sighed, understanding Draco's predicament, but the nature of a predicament being that there seemed no easy means out of it.

“I just need a lot of hugs, starting with one from you,” Draco said, turning to curl up against Ginny who welcomed his hug willing and gratefully. Draco was like a little boy in many ways, still looking and actually finding comfort in hugs. He could fool himself for a short time into believing that there were no problems in the world so long as he was in a hug. Ginny almost envied him for that, for having such a complete escape.

“You hear?” she offered, trying to move past this depressing topic, even though it was still unresolved, only because they were not going to work miracles that morning, “The birthday party has been bumped up,” Ginny said, hoping that would cheer Draco up. It didn't.

“Yeah, they moved it to be two days after the full moon. That's kind of them. The best way to go about un-inviting me is just creating unavoidable circumstances that would prevent my attendance,” he sighed.

“That, that is not what…”

“It is,” he said flatly, still hugging her. “Two days after the full moon, long enough that it can be chalked off as just an oversight of theirs that they believed it was long enough for me to be alright and make it, but still soon enough that I honestly probably wouldn't.”

“They wouldn't do that…”

“They read that article about Michael just like you did, just like the rest of Britain did. They thought Michael is a problem child to start with, and that article certainly did nothing to alter those beliefs.”

“But-”

“Let's just not talk about it. They don't want me at the party, Clarissa was right, my birthday was a month ago now, and the fact that they are bumping Harry's and Neville's birthdays up almost a whole month to just try to exclude me is enough trouble. They can have their birthday, I have survived years without having celebrated one,” he said, giving up on his hug at that point and Ginny left sitting there, feeling awful. What was supposed to be something that would unite the family, delaying Draco's birthday to have it the same time as the other two boys as a great summer birthday bash, turned out to do the exact opposite.

“Draco,” she attempted as he walked away.

“I have a lot to do before dinner, I still have to write in my journal -doctor's orders- and the full moon is Saturday so I should try for some decent rest,” he said, leaving Ginny to sit there.

--------------------

“You inconsiderate, selfish, insensitive, tosser!” Ginny screamed while slapping at her twin brothers, taking turns slapping and insulting each of them. They did little to shield themselves from their aggressive and irate pregnant sister.

“How dare you move the party up just so as to exclude Draco from it! To use a debilitating illness of his against him like that? You foul despicable nasty bastards!”

“Gin, please, it wasn't just us…”

“Oh, like telling me that the whole family is conspiring against Draco is any better?” she shouted, considering her wand next as she hit them with each word. Alternating between hands each time.

“This isn't meant to exclude him, but his birthday was in the beginning of June, it's silly to wait until the end of July to celebrate it. Having the party now at the beginning of July , right between the two, works out best for everyone…”

“Oh, don't play it off like you are doing Draco any kind of favor! You would have chosen a day before or a few more days after the moon if that were the case! Draco can see through your attempt, you choosing a day after the moon but still too soon for him to feel up to making it, but long enough to make it seem like an honest lapse on your part! You foul goolies!”

“Gin, calm down…please, don't get this worked up, come on, think of the baby,” Fred attempted, which only caused Ginny to lapse into a fit of tears. She plopped down on the couch in the back room of their shop and sobbed, her identical brothers standing before her in their shop robes, looking a little harassed and more than a little concerned.

“Like you care about the baby,” she hiccupped.

“We do, it is our newest little niece,”

“Or nephew,” Fred and then George assured.

“You hate Draco, the father. You resent him, and want nothing more than to exclude him from this family,” she sobbed, balling a white handkerchief to her face and wringing it in her hands.

“No, Ginny, please,” Fred pleaded, kneeling down before his only sister.

“We don't have a problem with Draco, we were the first to extend to him a little support since the news of you two, uh, getting together broke,” George reminded her.

“Then why is none of the family talking to him? Why is no one talking to me?” she wailed. “I have been working hard, moving, painting, dealing with two children that are not even my own, and my own brothers won't even take the time to fucking help me!”

“Ginny, we're sorry,” Fred assured, holding her hand but her just ripping it away to blow her nose with her handkerchief.

“I was the one that was upset after the party, with that mess with Michael and Derry…”

“And you read that article about Michael getting into trouble, did you? Felt it rationalized your behavior, exemplified you in what you were doing?” she barked at George.

“No, no,” the brothers attempted.

“Do you even know what Derry and Phinn did?” she growled, mopping at her face. “Derry started barking at Michael, like a dog, George. He barked at him! Michael blew a gasket and lunged at him and Phinn tried to pull him off of Derry and was only successful after calling him a freak!”

“Gin…”

“How is Draco, or Michael, supposed to feel welcomed by our family, if they are ostracized like that, that everyone will turn their backs on them at the drop of a hat? Draco has a lot of issues, and you are only reinforcing them with how you treat him! He is never going to get better if every attempt he makes in connecting with people and trusting gets thrown back in his face! And Michael…he is going through a rough time and how do you expect him to come out on the other side as a better person if his own family won't even give him a chance?”

“Ginny, we're…”

“No, no, I won't hear it. It is not me you should apologize to, it's Draco,” she said, holding her hand up and cutting her brother's off in a way that was believed to be a talent that was exclusive to Molly Weasley.

-------------------------

“Down that way is the access to the yard, or pit as we call it,” the tall woman explained as she led Draco through the `ropes' the following morning like she had promised. Draco was chained and muzzled, being led as though this were the full moon. He was being demonstrated all the precautions that would be taken, as he was shown the exact route they would be trekking.

“You will be stripped of all clothing prior to your change, and this will either be done through your consent and willingness, or through force, it is your choosing. As you are resistant to most spells' full effect, physical force will be employed to subdue you should you try anything, so my suggestion would be: don't.”

Draco was looking around, chin down, muzzle covering his nose and mouth. It was leather, and it was strapped in place around his head like one for a dog would be, but it was flatter with only a slight bulge for the nose, because he didn't actually have a muzzle. Other than three small holes for breathing it was solid, and it was uncomfortable. Draco hated it, wanted to pull at it, but his hands were shackled together. Chains led from each of his wrists to a guard on either side of him, two more chains attached to his collar and went to the guards in front and behind him. Draco felt like he had more than fifty pounds of metal hanging on him, and his feet ached from the cold as he attempted to walk without stumbling, the clinking of chains ominous in the cold stone chambers and hallways they passed through.

“There are no other werewolves on the block, at the moment, but expect that to change once the trials are run through,” she continued. “Your routine will not change, but the haste and time in which we move you likely will. You might be taken up there a few hours preceding the shift, to accommodate all the others that too will be here. We would leave you in your cell, typically, but it is documented that you are a Greater Wolf, so we cannot risk it. Until the stronger cells are built, for your transformation you must be relocated,” she said before glancing back at him. “This way.” She entered an extremely cramped and tightly spiraled staircase at that point that lead to somewhere high above. It was difficult, with all the chains and the guards attached to him, for Draco to climb, and when he stumbled he couldn't catch himself with his hands, leaving him to hit the cold stone hard and be yanked to his feet to only stumble more by the impatient handlers.

“Here we are,” she announced some time later, opening a weather-beaten door that groaned to reveal bright sunlight that seared Draco's eyes and caused him to flinch and look away. Pausing for just that long resulted in him being yanked by the chain at his throat and he was led out onto what seemed like a rooftop.

“As you can see, there isn't much cover up here,” she explained, stating the obvious. Draco looked around as the freezing wet air whipped across him, causing his over-sized clothing to flap and whirl about his tiny frame. “The cages are bare bars, but they are firm. The weather is harsh here, as you can tell,” she said, her and the guards all bundled up warmly and her holding the gap of her coat at her throat closed tight, “But as a wolf you will manage,” she said, Draco distinctly recalling her mentioning that he might end up being led up here and left to wait for the full moon for several hours, and that he would be stripped naked first. Did they really expect him to be able to endure this harsh winter weather while perched atop a tiny island in the middle of the frozen sea, naked and alone for a handful of hours?

“This is only temporary, proper holding cells are being constructed,” she assured, as though able to know Draco's thoughts on the matter but not promising him any kind of precautions they would take at the present to keep him from dying up there.

“Right, well, back to your cell,” she said, nodding to the guards as they attempted to turn around, which was a more difficult task than what was first imagined by Draco since there were so many chains. He had to turn while the guards walked around him, so as to not become tangled. The led him down the stone stairs again, and back through the prison. He had passed through cell block B on his way there, and now on his way back, everyone in the cells they past were waiting for him, ready to jeer and mock him. Many there were waiting out the time until their trials. The Death Eaters now captured watched as Draco, the first convicted, was led along like an animal, and they all barked and howled at him, none calling out to him what they truly felt, that he was a traitor, because they didn't want to convey any kind of innocents on his part and possibly lead to his release, but they taunted and spat at him, all of them loathing him, all of them reveling in his fate.

“In,” the guard grunted, giving Draco a firm shove. He slid the bars closed but then directed Draco to stand up against them so he could reach in and unlock his shackles, the collar -unfortunately- would be a permanent accessory. The last to be removed was the muzzle, and Draco took a deep breath once he was free of it, able to finally breathe air that was not musty and reeking of mildew and diseases.

Draco turned slowly, rubbing his wrists and his jaw, watching the man lumber off with the chains. Christina was sitting in her cell, quite daintily, legs crossed like a lady, eyes heavily hooded as she gazed at him.

“Morning, cutie,” she called, voice rolling and deep for a woman, but in a seductive way that only seemed to add to her allure. Draco looked at her for a moment before turning away, to crouch in his corner where there was a shallow puddle, splashing and dabbing his chin and mouth, sure that there was something left on his skin from that ghastly muzzle.

“Would you like some water?” she asked, Draco looking at her from over his shoulder in his crouching position. “I hoard it, because we only get a little bit. Here,” she said, getting up and grabbing a cloth as she did so. She moved over to the corner that he could not see her from, and there was a little sound of water. She appeared again holding the rag that now looked damp and held it out through her bars to signify that she would give it a toss when he was ready. Draco stood up, rubbing his hands on the butt of his slacks and looked around, as though fearful that a guard would come by and catch them. She just smiled and gave it a toss and Draco had to quickly reach out of his bars to nab it so it would not fall on the filthy floor.

“There you are, wash up,” she said, indicating with her finger that he likely had something on his left cheek. Draco wiped his face down, the water freezing but the freshness feeling so amazing, and when he opened his eyes he found Christina staring at him.

“Thank you,” he muttered quietly, making to give it a toss back but her just holding her hand up in decline.

“Keep it, I will ask for it back should I need it,” she said, plopping back down on her shelf-bed and looking over her shoulder through the bars so she could see him. “So, you speak. Feeling better from last night?” she asked.

“No,” he said bluntly, pulling his hood up to cover his baldness, hating the metal collar around his throat but unable to do anything about it, unsure how sleeping with it would be.

“Yeah, well, you're lucky, the Dementors are not here. This residual icky feeling they left is terrible, but still better than with them here personally.”

“You have been here for ten years?” he asked.

“Just about,” she said, twirling a piece of her curling hair around her finger.

“What…” he asked before feeling awkward and stopping.

“Hmm?” she encouraged.

“Well, we are in block C, for non-humans, so I was just wondering, what…”

“What I am?” she asked, laughing a little.

“I do not mean it to be rude, I am just curious,” he attempted to explain, sitting on his own bench and pulling his knees up so he could hold his toes in his hands in attempts of warming them.

“You are a werewolf,” she said.

“I know I am,” he said, a little irritated that she would not answer his question while stating such an obvious fact.

“You must have found yourself in some real disfavor if you wound up here with me,” she said and Draco blinked at her.

“What do you mean?”

“There are dozens of cells on the block, they wouldn't have put us so close together if they didn't have a reason. They keep me separate from the general population of the prison, thus why I am here,” she explained.

“So you are human?” he asked.

“That I am,” she nodded, each now having taken a turn telling the other what they already knew themselves to be.

“Then what makes you think that I am in some particular bad favor to be placed so near to you?” he asked, looking at her and clearly confused.

“I am here for kidnapping and attempted murder,” she said, looking at Draco who almost nodded, having been told this last night, “Of werewolves,” she then finished and Draco looked at her with slightly widened eyes. “They tried to convict me on torture and inhumane treatment of magical beasts and such, but my lawyer pleaded me out of that,” she said, almost reveling in Draco's obvious horror.

“You hurt werewolves?” he asked, his throat a little dry.

“Quite a few of them,” she said, leaning into the bars in a very seductive manner, her words in no way matching her body language.

“Wh-why?” he asked, scooting a little away from the bars as though if he hadn't she would have somehow managed to reach him.

“Why not?” she challenged.

“We are people too,” he attempted to argue, but his conviction not quite there as he hugged his knees more than anything.

“You still at that stage where you cling to that idea?” she asked, hanging off her bars now with her back arched and tilting her head to rest it on her raised upper arm. She looked like she was doing some kind of slow erotic dance using the bars, or simply posing for his benefit, which confused him given what she was saying.

“I am sick, but that doesn't make me any less of a person. My mother and father were human, and people. I was born human, and raised a person; being attacked and made sick doesn't change any of that,” he said, a little more heated now, his dignified air of aristocratic blood coming forth to shield his vulnerability. Christina seemed intrigued by that.

“You were attacked, like, you are a survivor?”

“I didn't choose this,” he snapped.

“Do you have scars?” she asked, practically wagging her bum as she hung on the bars, excited maybe?

“Yes,” Draco answered slowly.

“May I…see them?” she asked, biting her bottom lip.

“No,” Draco said in a dignified outrage as he moved away from his bars so she could see none of him.

“Come on,”

“Leave me alone,” he barked.

“I just want to see how badly you were hurt.”

“I nearly died, awright?”

“You take Wolfsbane before your first shift?” she asked.

“No.”

“So you actually suffered through the agony of a first shift? Unaided?” she asked as though impressed.

“Yes,” Draco said decisively.

“I can't deny I'm not awed by that.”

“By what?” Draco grumbled towards his bars.

“That you were so brave,” she said very softly, the last word but a whisper, Draco's sense of pride tickled by that.

“What?” he asked, a whole lot of his edge dropped.

“You survived an attack, a feat in of itself, but you then suffered through a change, an excruciating and consuming change, the worst one will even endure. That is quite hard, I know, I studied werewolves,” she said, still softly.

“You mean kidnapped, tortured, and murdered them,” Draco snapped, pulling his blanket on over himself, fighting the spell she seemed to have on him with her whispers.

“You have me all wrong, Draco. I was a Mediwitch. I was researching to find a cure for the affliction. I was working with volunteers, or what I sincerely believed to be volunteers. There was a certain amount of risk and pain that went along with participating with the study, but it was far from malicious torture, I swear it to you,” she assured, her conviction there, enough that even Draco, able to sense thoughts and feelings -though not read them yet- was convinced.

“Then why are you here?” he asked, his skepticism not as easily slain.

“Why are you here?” she challenged, Draco looking down, then across his cell, then back at his bars. Maybe they were both wrongfully imprisoned.

----------------------

“How has your week been, Draco?”

“Don't sit here and play clueless as to how I have faired in these last few days, sir, like you don't read the papers,” Draco snapped, sitting, once again, with his therapist. It was Friday and there being only a day left before the full moon, Draco was not in a pleasant mood. He had just come from seeing his “Support Wizard” who coached him through every full moon and distributed Wolfsbane, who he also had to see every Friday, and no visit to the “beast division” of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the Ministry of Magic left Draco all happy and bubbly feeling.

“I only read reputable papers, not that gossiping and mongering poppycock,” he said smoothly, Draco still being rather unresponsive. The man did not press, he just waited, and Draco sat there for a long moment, arms crossed and knee bouncing before he just started off in a long and irate rant.

“I don't know what people want from me,” he said and the good doctor just sat there, allowing Draco to vent. “You know, you try to do the right thing, you try and be a decent, upstanding, honest person, and all that just gets thrown back in your face,” he said with a chopping motion in the air with his hand. “What's the incentive in that? Huh? Why is it that I continue to try and try to make amends for a past that I had no control over, and things I did not even do,” -he pointed at himself- “when no one is going to give me a chance anyways? I was punished, grievously, for what I was accused of, and now, still, people won't let up! I have to try twice as hard as everyone else to simply attempt at reaching the same ends, and not only am I denied every time, my efforts go unrecognized. A `thank you, Draco, that was so considerate of you' would be nice now and then, you know?” he exasperated, throwing his hands out to the sides as though just their movement and chopping was assisting in his clarification. He took his seemingly first breath since the start of this, and continued on in a fast steady pace.

“I can't keep going on like this, expending all this effort for no reward, it's exhausting! Ginny's family hates me when I have been nothing but charming and pleasant towards them for months and before that they hadn't seen me in almost fourteen years! My son is terrified to be in the same room as me, and my daughter feels like the family is falling apart and has been sleeping with me every night in search of comfort. My mother feels displaced by the move even though we are moving into her old house, and she doesn't stop to consider that all her complaining is really wearisome and insulting to the effort I have put forth in restoring that heap of filth. As it is, doing just that is costing me more than was projected due to unforeseen expenses with the piping rotted through and mildew damage. No one will give me a job so I have no hopes of attaining any sort of income, Ginny remains disgustingly optimistic that I will just stroll in somewhere with an application and get hired on the spot, and she will need to take leave soon to have the baby, which is just a whole other set of worries right there,” he said, not seemingly taking a breath at all through that. “All I am trying to do,” he said, more slowly now, more defeated and less infuriated, “is set up a life for myself and my family, and it seems every way I try and go about it someone has to kick me down, and everywhere I turn for help I get nothing but false assurances of sympathy.”

“You are going through a rough patch,” Dr. Valensclaro comforted and Draco scoffed at that. “I agree that it seems unfair that people seem so unwilling to give you a chance, but can you really blame them?”

“Yes.”

“My dear boy, do you not still hold to strong prejudices from the war?”

“Of course not.”

“Not even against one Harry Potter?”

“If you are trying to twist this around and make it seem like I am being served precisely what I myself am dishing out, you can get fucked,” Draco growled, his own profanity stripping the dignity out of his words that he otherwise clung to so dearly.

“Well, look at it this way,” he said, removing his glasses to look right at Draco then. “You are absolutely unwilling to forgive Harry for what he did to you in the past, or what you believe he has done to you, despite his attempts to make things right…much like you are going through now. You feel underappreciated for all that you have done, but imagine how Harry feels, being honored for doing things he hadn't actually done while having so much expected from him all the time. He has lived a very hard life, much like you have, but despite everything, he still reaches out to try and help others, while you complain about how life is completely unfair to you, and you act as though everyone is against you, when really, you have pitted yourself against everyone else. You don't know what to do with yourself when someone is genuinely nice to you, so you reject it, because you are too insecure to believe it has anything to do with you and it is just them wanting something. You seem drawn to negative attention, if you weren't you wouldn't set yourself up like you seem to constantly. It would seem as though you are looking for some kind of sympathy, but you grow annoyed that those around you are tired of giving it to you without any kind of compensation, without a `thank you, that was very considerate of you to comfort me,'” he said and Draco blinked at him. “You are a whiner, and you take a lot more than you give. I don't doubt that you give tremendously, but you are needy,” he said, maybe being so blunt and harsh to keep Draco from interrupting, maybe that was just his method. Whatever it was, it left Draco feeling like a jerk.

“Are you calling me a hypocrite?” he asked a little heatedly.

“Possibly,” the doctor answered coolly.

“So you are saying this is kind of like karma, coming around to bite me in the arse?” Draco asked a little more timidly.

“As much as you have been wronged, Draco, you have wronged others, and you still continue to. You need to maybe give a little more, at the personal risk of possibly being rejected, because people respond positively to that sort of thing. Selflessness, it is a very endearing and valuable quality.”

“I give all I have for my family,” Draco said firmly.

“I didn't say you are a bad father, Draco, you did,” he argued so smoothly. “I believe you give tremendously to your family, but you are far too insecure to give one-hundred percent in anything.”

“I am not insecure.”

“You, Draco, are one of the most insecure people I have ever treated.”

“Oh, thank you,” Draco said dryly, looking away as a pout set in place.

“You were a bully in school; it is a commonly understood actuality that bullies are terribly insecure, forcing others below them by any means -emotional or physical- possible, so as to compensate for their lack of self-worth and to feel superior.”

“I was just raised to think less of certain people given their blood purity, I outgrew that,” Draco argued.

“No, you just repress it. You were raised to draw self-worth from external things rather than internal. Wealth, social status, blood status, it was all held to a greater esteem than personal qualities, qualities like…love…”

“Shut up.”

“Is it fair of me to presume your father, and/or mother, were exceedingly difficult to please or had unrealistically high standards?”

“You assume too much,” Draco drawled.

“I believe it says here,” the good doctor said, reading over something Draco himself had written, “That you resented your father's inability to appreciate you for what you were capable of, always comparing you to others, pitting you against other boys in competitions because he drew worth amongst his friends whose sons you competed with and bested. You say yourself that your father never commended you for a job well done because he didn't believe in rewarding what was expected of you: perfection, but should you fall short of his perceived ideals of accomplishment you were ridiculed, belittled, and sometimes even punished?”

“My father just wanted me to try as hard as I could. I am very skilled at a great number of things thanks to him.”

“Yet you resent him?”

“I do not.”

“You wrote it, here,” he argued, pointing at the paper.

“I was tired,” Draco attempted to argue away his writings, but the man just shook his head.

“I truly believe that all your problems really stem from your insecurity and self-doubt, Draco. I don't feel I can truly help you without addressing these things, going back to the beginning and finding out why you feel so undeserving.”

“I do not-”

“You were raised to be timid, and to search for merit and appeal from peripheral sources,” he said quite bluntly, cutting Draco off. “This leads you to only become more insecure over what people think about you, afraid that it is negative because of your history, and you doubt yourself because you have failed at tasks in the past,” he explained. “You feel insecure in your abilities -such as being a father- because you doubt your rationality and decision making skills because you have been led astray and have made bad choices in the past. Those choices have left you feeling like a fool, and guilty, and willing to say you deserve the kinds of treatment you endure, but that leaves you open to be prayed upon, which once again leads to you growing more insecure with yourself as people berate you.” Draco was shaking his head. “You are afraid to love, because those you loved in the past were taken from you, or used as means of manipulating you, and you fear it happening again. So you close yourself off and do not fully welcome people's sympathies, yet you long for both companionship and understanding, but are so down on yourself that you feel you deserve neither,” he explained, unrelenting in his explanation of his observation. “You blame yourself for things that couldn't possibly be your fault, because you seem to feel that everyone else does it -use you as blame- so why not, maybe they're right? It's all because you don't know how -you were not raised to understand how- to cherish you for simply being you,” he said and Draco looked down. “You try too hard to be someone else, your father, the son he wanted you to be, the father you think you should be, the father people expect you to be, the man you want to be for Ginny, the man she would love you to be, the man people want you to be as a prisoner out of Azkaban, the man you were supposed to be under the guidance of the Dark Lord. You cannot be everything to everyone, Draco, you cannot please them all. You shouldn't let what others think of you dictate how you see yourself because there will always be those who will not like you, and honestly, they aren't worth the anguish you cause yourself.”

“I…I have just had a bad experience all the way around.” He sighed. “I didn't have much control over my life growing up, it was always me being groomed and cultured to look, act, and think as my parents desired, and the first opportunity I had to do things on my own and make important decisions, I seriously blew it. Then it was just one bad choice after another, leading me to where I am now.”

“So now you doubt yourself.”

“Yeah,” Draco whispered.

“You shouldn't fear yourself, Draco, and you shouldn't dwell in the past. You have made mistakes, everyone has, but no one is going to forgive you, if you are not willing to forgive yourself.” Draco looked up at him, eyes tearful. “It is difficult to love someone that doesn't love himself,” he said softly and Draco looked down at that point, to hide his tears. “Why don't you stop pushing Ginny away?” he asked, still softly, still understanding.

“I'm not…I'm…”

“You are, Draco. Think about all the times she has recently attempted to comfort you, over things that quite possibly include her and/or the baby too, and compare it to the number of times you have gone out of your way to do the same in regards to her,” he said and Draco blinked at him, a look of horror slowly gripping his eyes.

“I have been a rotten unaccommodating boyfriend,” he moaned and Dr. Valensclaro just sighed.

“No, just not the most supportive kind, which I can't blame you, when you are so unwilling to cut yourself any slack. Why don't you, tonight, go home and just do whatever you can to make her feel like the most glamorous and adored women in all the world? Praise her for her efforts and daily accomplishments, and talk of only positive things. It's amazing how wonderful you yourself will feel doing so, while giving her the very thing you have longed for all your life: appreciation?”

“Is this couple's therapy now?” Draco asked timidly, trying to hide the fact that a tear or two had escaped him. Dr. Valensclaro didn't seem to hold it against him any.

“No, just generalized therapy, but as a man that has been married to the same woman for over sixty years, I think I know what I am talking about,” he said with a smile, placing his glasses back on his face and taking a few notes.

Draco dropped his head again.

“May I ask, on the topic of your relationship -or should I say relationships- why you still wear your wedding band more than nine years after your wife's passing?” the man asked smoothly, somehow managing to not make the question sound either accusatory or overly intrusive, which annoyed Draco because it didn't leave him any excuse to get angry. This man was good.

“Someone dying doesn't un-marry them to you,” he said softly.

“But when a spouse dies and their partner remarries it's not considered polygamy,” he argued.

“Is there a point to be made amidst all this bullux?” Draco drawled in a rather snapping fashion, clinging to anger to hide his embarrassment and vulnerability he had just displayed.

“Do you think about your wife often?”

“Yes.”

“Often as in once a month, once a week, once a day?”

“I fail to see how that is any of your-”

“Because I can see where a lot of your insecurity stems from, beyond what your father did to you-”

“What do you mean `what my father did to me'?”

“It comes from her,” he said, unfaltering in Draco's interruption, “and I wonder why you cling to her so, even in death.”

“She never made me insecure, she was the only one there for me for a long time,” Draco attempted to argue but the man would not have it.

“Yet you refuse to ever mutter her name?”

“I do no such thing.”

“Then say it.”

“No, I do not take action on command.” It was something he refused to do ever again.

“You say she was the only one there for you for a while, but as I have come to understand it, she was barely there at all.”

“How dare you…you do not know her, or what my relationship with her was…”

“You mean to protect her then, from my claims?”

“She is my wife and mother of my children and I will not allow you to degrade and belittle her efforts when she is not even here to bloody defend herself.”

“You see? You are defending her, when you more than anyone should be the one displeased with her efforts, why? Is it because it's too painful to admit what she had done? Or because you still refuse to truly believe any of it and take the stance that everyone is unfairly picking on her -just like you feel they are doing to you- and they are not appreciating her effort -much like you feel yourself- so therefore you viciously defend her?”

“I don't feel if have to explain my loyalty to my wife to you.”

“You might want to explain it to Ginny, though.”

“What…what are you…? What does she have to do with any of this?”

“Something has you thinking about your wife a whole lot more than you used to, dwelling on her a whole lot more, preying on your insecurity, and I think that has a lot more to do with Ginny than you are willing to acknowledge. Your ability to cling to denial is astounding.”

“Well, why don't you tell me how I'm feeling then, doctor,” Draco said, crossing his arms.

“You, Draco, are afraid.”

“What?”

“Terrified.”

“I am no such-”

“You loved your wife, still do obviously, and you gave the relationship your all despite everything that was working against you at the time, despite the fact that your efforts had never been appreciated for what they were in the past, and she still ran out on you,” he said, Draco hurt by the harshness but face tight and blank so as to not allow the man to see how close to truth he might have struck. The man was speculating, that was his job, he was just waiting for him, Draco, to reward him with some kind of reaction. “That basically demoralized you from ever trusting anyone again, including your beloved Ginny. You are afraid now, to give everything you have to Ginny, because you fear she too will run out on you, her with child just like your wife and that clearly not being enough to stop her, and you don't believe it possible for you to survive another disappointment as great as that.”

Draco just shook his head.

“I think you need to stop blaming yourself for things that are in no way perceivably your fault, and stop doubting yourself because of past mistakes, it is crippling in your attempts to be productive and build this life you claim to be striving for, for your family.”

Draco just clamped his jaw tight and looked away.

“Was I close to the truth there?” the man asked, putting his glasses back on and leaning back slightly.

“I bloody hate you,” Draco said softly, breath quivering, not about to start crying again but struggling.

---------------------

Ginny trekked all the way up to the top floor of the house and breathed deeply in her exhaustion. She had reprimanded each of her brothers thoroughly and it had taken a lot out of her. She just wanted to snuggle close to Draco (no offense to Clarissa, she loved the girl, but she could do without her sleeping with them for one night) and sleep in for once. It would be a Saturday, she would have the day off from work, and she did not revel in the idea of spending the day working on the house, getting up bright and early like Narcissa always seemed to, and working until collapse.

She pushed open the door, expecting Draco to already be asleep given how dark and quiet it was, but upon stepping in, instead of finding Draco curled up in the sheets, sound asleep, she found candles lit all around, making the room glow softly. Ginny stepped in the rest of the way to allow the door to close, utterly perplexed by what she had happened upon.

Draco, who had been behind the door, was behind her now, pushing the door closed and thus forcing her to walk in further. He tiptoed up behind her and without touching her, made his presence known by leaving only a hair's width gap between himself and her, his breath quaking down her back to dance along the fine hairs there. Ginny gasped a little but Draco's thin arms encircled her and held her to him as he hooked his chin over her shoulder to hug her tight and press the side of his face against hers.

“Draco,” she managed with a weak laugh at herself for having been caught so surprised.

“I realized that we never had our night of romance, with the strawberries, and the candles, and the rose peddles,” he said into her ear, his hands on her tummy, gripping the material there and rubbing it into her skin like he wanted nothing more than to rip it away from her.

“Draco, there is only a day before the full moon,” Ginny reminded.

“I have not forgotten.”

“You should be resting; I thought you were up here sleeping.”

“I was up here, attempting to create a scene of romance and desire without catching the bed sheets on fire. I'm quite proud of myself in my accomplishment,” he said, teasing both verbally and with his hands.

“I would feel awful to decline on this offer after as much effort as you put into it, but you shouldn't expend so much energy when you are going to need it…”

“I think we need to spend a little less time worrying about me, and a little more time appreciating you,” he said, cutting her off and reaching up to hold her breasts. “It was a long day, so I think that warrants a good long rubdown,” he said, walking her over to the bed while still wrapped around her. Ginny giggled as Draco kissed at her neck and throat and tilted her head back to look up.

“Are those roses?” she asked, seeing the blossoms strung up along the canopy of the bed.

“Yes, yellow ones, your favorite,” he answered, a little muffled with his lips pressed against her skin.

“You haven't done anything wrong, have you?” she asked causing Draco to stop.

“What?”

“This isn't your way of going about telling me some really awful news is it?” she asked as she turned in his arms to be facing him but still held close.

“No, this is just me, apologizing for not appreciating you as much as I should have been.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked but Draco just kissing her, not about to make an argument of this, her too ready to defend his poor behavior so as to sooth his guilt. He wouldn't allow that, not tonight. He was going to make sure she remembered every single thing he loved about her, no matter how long it took, or how much effort on his part.

“Remember when I asked you to promise me never to break my heart?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ginny asked, sounding uneasy.

“You didn't ask me to promise anything in return,” he said and she looked ready to assure him it was not necessary but he wouldn't hear it, not this time. He really needed to do this. “I promise to be less secretive, and more willing to turn to you, rather than away from you,” he said, holding her close to him. He had a lot of making up to do, and this was just the start. He knew, having had his doctor spell it out to him quite plainly, that he was a hypocrite, and was acting like a baby, and needed to deal with that…but first he needed to deal with Ginny, to assure her just what she meant to him.

“Draco…”

“I love you,” he said, his naked hands lifting her shirt to press against her stomach, no ring to be found.

Author's note/Summery:

Michael's troubles just keep on compounding, don't they? Poor boy. And Ginny is trying SO hard…she deserves a cookie. I loved her scene with Fred and George. There's that fire in her I have been lacking in, well, this whole story. I tend to focus too much on Draco, and Ginny's character is a little smothered. All will be righted. <3 Fred and George. Now they know what REALLY happened between Michael, Derry, and Phinn. Maybe things will get better?

Flashback-fun-time! Christina, what a character, what a doll. I love her. Draco does too apparently, but mostly he is scared shitless of her at the moment. Thinking on it, however, in about 2 months time from that flashback he will have gotten her preggers. SOMETHING happens between them, but what? Wait and see. :]

Draco's therapist is a brutal but insightful man, don't you agree? Draco really needs to learn to love himself, and forgive himself, for him to truly heal. He and I are working on that. *huggles Draco* He is so insecure, which I honestly believe to be canon. It's arguable at least, given the psychology of bullies and his display of character in the books. I know many of you want to know, “Will Draco get better?” I'm not going to beat around the bush here: Draco is a Paranoid Schizophrenic in this fic, so will he “get better?” no if you mean “cured” yes if you mean “he will eventually be more adjusted”…as in highly medicated…

The ending scene was a fan-service, because I know I write SO much angst and drama and dark-stuff. Some of you have enough of that in your personal lives, why read MORE of it in a fic? Draco and Ginny are doomed to have a tremulous relationship, but a happy ending, I swear. Yellow roses, candles, silken sheets, and a song (that I didn't include in the writing) topped off by mind-blowing sex…what woman wouldn't forgive Draco?

-->

Fallen Angel

Chapter 06

Draco laughed in a rather flirtatious way, hugging his knees to his chest as he had become accustomed to doing in the last month to be able to hold his toes and keep them warm. Accompanying him was Christina's laugh, just as teasing and light. Draco's hair was now about an inch long, and utterly straight, so it stuck up every which way in choppy, chunky pieces. A comb might have done him good and tamed it some, but that was not a luxury he was extended, and he knew -having had this hair his whole life- nothing but length and liberal amounts of styling product would make it lay nice anyways. It was pretty stubborn, as many a witch or wizard's hair tended to be.

“You're making fun of me,” he accused while still laughing, despite even the terrible gloom that still cast its foul dread upon them, leftover from those accursed Dementors. Company, and happy memories, helped stave off such murk, Christina and Draco were each the other's refuge.

“I would never dare tease a werewolf,” she giggled, Draco tilting his head down bashfully but smiling too. “My little fair-haired boy,” she sighed, tilting her head against the bars. “You were popular with the girls at Hogwarts, I can tell,” she said, sounding absolutely certain in this as she stared at him with her always hooded eyes, eyes that always looked hungry for something, eyes that always seemed to find themselves on him.

Draco sucked on his bottom lip while examining his toes.

“I was too much of a stuck-up prat to be so popular,” he admitted, being dismissive towards her flattery.

“Oh, come now,” she pressed.

“No, honestly. I know girls thought I was charming, but in that `he is such a bastard,' kind of way that didn't get me very far, there being too many self-respecting girls in attendance.”

“Surely you had your following.”

“One, and I wanted nothing more than for her to find a new object of obsession and leave me be,” he said, laughing again by the time he was nearly finished.

“I'm sure she was tolerable enough, you got what you wanted from her at least, right?” she asked and Draco blinked at her.

“Excuse me?” he asked, rather bewildered.

“You know, you got a little action in at least, right? It made her worth the hassle, maybe even made her enjoyable?” she asked as though she couldn't imagine what she was trying to say could be any more obvious. Draco realized what she was implying and his eyes widened just a touch and he blushed in an unmistakable way.

Christina looked at Draco in a knowing fashion for a second before bemusement broke across her face.

“Oh, oh,” she said, looking up. “You are virginal,” she said and Draco blushed, damn it, he blushed deeply. “Oh god that is so precious!” she gushed, slapping her hands together in a sort of enthusiastic praise.

“I really don't think it is that big of a deal,” he said, trying to be dismissive again, this time as a means of hiding his embarrassment rather than just being modest.

“I think it is,” she said, a little more solemnly now.

“Why?”

“Because 10 to 20 years in this place, as a virgin? Forgive me, but that fucking sucks,” she said and Draco considered her words for a second. He hadn't really thought about it in that way before. Not yet at least, though the situation would have struck him at one point or another. He had blown his chance to share himself with Ginny, and now it looked like it was just going to be him and his hand for…a long time.

Christina looked at Draco and tilted her head.

“My fair-haired boy,” she said and he looked up at her. “Don't let what I said get you down. Virginity is an asset, one with a value that only grows with time. You know, like stinky cheese,” she teased at that last.

“Like a fine wine? I don't see how.”

“Someone is going to see you as positively delicious because you are…unspoiled,” she said, Draco missing the intensity in her eyes because he was looking at his toes again.

“Maybe for a lass it has some kind of allure, but for a chap, I think it just comes across as being pathetic more than anything.”

“Don't say that,” she comforted, moving up and closes to the bars as she could. “I think you are special, unlike any gentleman I have met before. I like you,” she said, looking him up and down, which wasn't difficult with his balled up like he was.

Draco looked over at her.

“I hope that wasn't too forward, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable,” she said, not looking all that uncomfortable herself, or apologetic. “I just think you should appreciate your value, for what it is, not what you wish you could be,” she said and Draco took in her words -her wise words- about pride, but found them difficult to swallow given where he was at the moment.

Draco batted his eyes bashfully and grinned down.

“I certainly like you, if I may be so bold,” he said, waiting for her to laugh at him, always teasing and making fun of him, but when he looked up, he just saw a look of deep satisfaction seep into her expression, orange ringlets falling across her face to spring against her slowly moving ginger eyelashes.

Draco groaned and rolled over, disoriented by his memory and feeling someone holding him to their front, unsure of whom it was. It couldn't have been Clarissa -his mind slowly coming into focus- she was so tiny when snuggled up to him, and the roundness to his back was evidence of a full tummy between them. Draco breathed a satisfied sigh and reached up to hold her hands that held him.

Ginny stirred and rolled some, and Draco seized the opportunity to free himself from her embrace. He was so tired, so exhausted, and that night being the change left a weight looming over him that made him sluggish and sore, but he got up regardless. He limped over to his cane that was standing propped up against the dresser and leaned on it with a sigh, this time of ease.

In the dark he made his way over to the vanity in the corner which once belonged to his mother, that was primarily Ginny's now but Draco encroached upon quite a bit, and sat there. His wedding ring was amongst its cluttered top, and he looked at it for a long moment before picking it up and admiring it. It was his father's old band, and his great grandfather's before him. Inside was some kind of Latin, too worn to be read anymore, Draco knowing is was some kind of declaration to love and honor forever. Looking at it Draco thought of Christina, and what she had said to him in that most recent recollection of his. She had said much the same as his therapist had, which was to love himself for exactly who he was. Knowing he needed to work on that, he slipped the ring back on, feeling less naked with it in place. He wasn't ready to be without it. Even if it didn't have any special significance, to be without something that has been worn for more than twelve years so suddenly does leave one lacking. He was ready to try and move past his wife, because he loved Ginny so much, but he wasn't ready for forget the woman that had meant so much to him, who had taught him so much.

Now just sitting there with hands in his lap, Draco thought about brushing his hair, thought about putting some lotion on his dry hands, but just stared at his reflection. Nude and thin he just sat there, and leaned in. The glass shone on its own accord when someone sat before it, so his skin looked as pale and shallow as ever under its harshness, and he couldn't help but notice how tired, thin, and ill he looked. Shadows were created in the hollows of his cheeks to make them seem sunken in…more than usual, his eyes were so pale that the darkness under them seemed intense by contrast, and if his collarbones stuck out any more, they would burst through the skin. He leaned in further and with only his ring fingers he delicately touched the soft skin below his eyes, gently lifting it up so that it sagged just a little less, making him look just a little less tired, and a little younger.

“Dre?” Ginny asked quietly, taking a deep breath, obviously just waking and able to know where he was by the glow coming from the vanity.

He sighed deeply. “More lines on my face,” he said, voice raw sounding, pulling his hands away slightly to let everything fall back into place. “Where could they possibly come from?” he asked.

Ginny rolled out of bed while pulling a silken robe on in the same motion; she was tying it about herself as she approached. Draco tilted his head towards her and nuzzled her hand against his cheek as she rested one on each of his shoulders.

“They are laugh lines, luv,” she whispered into his ear as she leaned down.

“Laugh lines?”

“And smile lines, right here,” she said, leaning down and around his cheek to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“When do I ever smile?”

“Mmm, last night,” she purred, rubbing her nose against his ear then.

“I feel old,” he sighed, looking away from the mirror.

“You are not old; you are a year older than I.”

“That doesn't change how my body feels,” he said, now staring at his cane.

“You know how I feel?” she asked, barely a breath in his ear.

“Hmm?”

“Lucky,” she said, Draco turning to look at her. “Last night was wonderful…I still can't quite feel my toes,” she said, a glow about her that had very little to do with the mirror beside them. Draco blushed in a bashful sort of way and smiled. “Ah, see?” she said, tilting his chin up. “Smile lines,” she said, kissing the corner of his eye then as though to show the skin there love that Draco could not.

Draco grabbed Ginny's face in his hands and pulled her down into a soft kiss, just a press of lips at first, but slowly worked it into a still slow but more thorough kiss. He pulled away just a breath so he could tease the tip of her nose with his and smile at her -little lines forming in the corners of his eyes- foreheads leaned towards one another.

“I love you,” he assured, Ginny closing her eyes to bask in the glow of Draco's affections.

“I know,” she whispered, grabbing and gently pulling on his bottom lip with her teeth. He smiled at that and allowed her to pull him standing by his hands and walk with him, still lip locked, towards the bed. He was sore, and his hip would not have any of this, but he ignored it as he fell into the white sheets with Ginny.

What was romantic last night was a mess this late morning. The roses that had hung above them had dropped many of their peddles onto the sheets, which were torn about, half off the bed, draped to the floor in silken falls of white. Candles had spilled their wax from being knocked over in Draco and Ginny's…vigor…and the wax now clung to the still unfinished floor, the preposterously expensive sheets, and even just a little in Ginny's hair on the one side where the ends had been dragged through it at some point when she had flipped her hair around.

Draco found himself below Ginny; soft yellow peddles sliding to gather against him in the divot he made in the bedding, Ginny still robed but looming over him, her lips playing across his. Draco allowed himself to get lost in the moment, until just trying to move caused a sharp pain to shoot down his leg and rip his face from hers to look away and hiss softly.

“Oh, are you…?” Ginny asked, fearful she had somehow hurt him without realizing it. She hadn't been handling him rough, so she hadn't even considered it, bit she did weigh more now...

“My hip,” he said simply, looking at her and through eye contact they were able to silently agree that the mood was kind of dead at that point. “Forgive me,” he muttered timidly, allowing her to slide off him and sit on the mattress, him rolling to just hug her around the middle and place his face on her lap which he had to share, of course, with their baby in her belly.

“It's not your fault, it's the day of the full, and we were up all night.”

“Not all night…”

“All night,” she giggled and Draco couldn't help but glow himself a little with pride and satisfaction despite the pain he was in.

“What should I get you for breakfast?” she said and he breathed out loudly then. “Don't give me that, you are going to eat something, so what will it be?” she said, still soft speaking, threat heavy despite it.

“Can I not eat later?” he whined, pouting, snuggling close, using his tactics to get his way.

“You can if you like, but you are still going to eat now,” she said, refusing to fall victim to Draco's devices.

Draco sighed again, then whined wordlessly, and hugged her a little tighter, and murmured more inaudible whines.

“Well?”

“Hotcakes?” he asked, and she smiled, stroking his hair across her lap.

“That what you would like?”

“Strawberries,” he then added and Ginny smiled, nodding and leaning down to kiss his temple and scoot out from under him.

“Alright,” she said, adjusting her robe so that it was fully covering and tied securely. “I will be back with them, you rest up until then,” she said, already closing the door behind her to leave Draco laying there, breathing a little more shallowly from the hurt now that she was not in his presence. He wasn't sure he would be able to keep food down, not with the amount of pain he was in at the moment.

Ginny made her way down the stairs, the many stairs, slowly. She was thinking about checking on the children on her way, but the house was so quiet, she knew them to be asleep still. She would make Draco his breakfast, letting them sleep a little longer.

In the basement of the house, the kitchen sat alone but not as dark as it was in her memories of the place as the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. Electric light and cleaned windows that peeped out and were level with the street helped significantly. Ginny shuffled in there to find Narcissa already up, as was to be anticipated, and dressed, as was to be expected. Ginny stood there in her robe and felt underdressed, as always Mrs. Malfoy able to seem condescending without even a word spoken, as though just by her contrast she was able to accurately indicate the difference in their upbringing.

“Good morning, Mum,” Ginny said brightly, despite the awkwardness between them still, plenty of warm feelings there too. Narcissa was “Mum” now because, well, Ginny was the new mother of Draco's brood, and she -Narcissa- demanded that she be “Mum”. Ginny didn't mind, it helped her feel like a real member of the family and not just “the girlfriend” and mother to bastard child number three.

“Good morning, Ginny dear,” Narcissa replied, in the middle of making herself some tea. “I was thinking I would be the only one out of bed today,” she said leisurely, tones curt but not out of coldness, it was just how she spoke. Her hair was still long, Ginny had discovered, but one would not have guessed by how meticulously she tucked it up into a French twist of a bun. It was silver now, with a singular styled curl -like a swoosh- across her forehead. She looked glamorous, and still youthful, elegant and stylish, though a little stiff.

“I came down to make Draco something to eat. He has been loosing weight again, even if he hasn't said anything about it. I can tell.”

“He has always struggled to keep weight on. I could stuff that boy with sweets to the point where any other child would be portly and their teeth would be falling out of their heads, but not my Angel. He was skinny as a house-elf and it worried me so. I took him to doctors and Healers all the time, they said he was healthy enough,” she said and Ginny smiled at Narcissa's back, knowing Narcissa had been the kind of mother who feared her son had caught every disease imaginable at one point or another. It was no mystery as to why Draco was so timid over so many things now; his mother had convinced him since he was small that any venture could lead to illness or sudden death, and nothing could fully break him of that it seemed. As it was, he was legitimately allergic to many things -she had discovered- which only seemed to compound certain problems with him.

“He worries me,” Ginny sighed, her smile wilting after only a brief moment.

“It's best not to, as easy as it would be to do so, because it won't fix anything. But you, dear, should be in bed. I can bring Angel, and you, something to eat,” she said.

“For someone who lectures against the futility of worrying, you worry a lot,” Ginny pointed out, though good naturedly. Narcissa just glanced over at her in a sharp way, like a bird of prey, but it wasn't harsh, just lacking a lot of humor. “I'm alright.”

“But that baby needs you to rest,” Narcissa said, looking at the swell that was her third grandchild. She still had mixed feelings over her baby having yet another unplanned baby, but she couldn't help but be supportive. She felt babies were a blessing, and wished she had been able to experience it herself more than just once.

“I feel quite alright, and the baby is not moving about, so I know he or she is fine for the moment,” she said, knowing that as the dusk approached the baby would fret about a whole lot. There was a real danger with the umbilical cord getting wrapped around the neck, so Ginny would have Hermione there -a certified Healer- to monitor things, Ginny unable to go to a hospital seeing as how no one knew she was even pregnant yet.

“My dear…”

“No worrying, remember?” Ginny pointed out and Narcissa sighed. “How about you help me with the hotcakes, for Angel,” Ginny said, knowing Narcissa needed something proactive to do to keep herself from fretting, and using “Angel” because it tore at Narcissa's heartstrings. He was her little angel, no matter what bad things he had done in the past.

“That is what he asked for?”

“And strawberries, I believe we have some. That syrup stuff with the bits of strawberry in it that he loves so very much has kept, right?” Ginny asked, moving over to the refrigerator and opening it, leaning in to look.

“When are the two of you going to announce your pregnancy?” Narcissa asked and Ginny sighed, closing the door. “I don't mean to be a nag about it, you know how I loath repeating myself, but honestly, you are not getting any less pregnant by the day, and the complications you are risking by not seeking proper help and care with this are greater than your privacy at this point,” she argued.

“I am willing to announce it, Mum, I really am…but Draco is still reluctant. I don't know what it is that he fears so, and you know how he doesn't talk about such things,” she sighed.

“For the baby's sake, he will forgive you if you went out and got the help you need. That support chap Draco sees can't help you through the delivery,” she said and Ginny nodded. Ginny and Draco's secret was known by none outside the family but one, and that was Draco's Support Wizard Marcus Belby. Draco had turned to him, because he hadn't anywhere else to go in this matter and knew he couldn't handle it alone. He needed Marcus' knowledge and resources. He needed the Wolfsbane for Ginny to ingest; he needed someone who understood the development of a baby werewolf. Marcus had been reluctant to keep this a secret, and neither Draco nor Ginny could go to him without him pleading them to stop trying to conceal this, but he helped them still. At risk of losing his own job he helped them because, unlike most people, he saw the value of a werewolf's life, even if it was yet to be born.

“I can't deny that I too am frightened,” Ginny said softly.

“Draco is frightened, you need to be strong.”

“It's exhausting to have to be the strong one all the time,” Ginny said, tone a little snippy.

“As a Malfoy woman, you will see, it is just how it is,” Narcissa said solemnly, never speaking of her late husband and Ginny not pressing, but getting the message loud and clear: being strong is just what came with being a Mrs. Malfoy. It meant a lot to Ginny to have Narcissa consider her a Malfoy woman. She didn't say anything, because Narcissa would deny it all, but Ginny knew the woman liked her a whole lot more than she ever allowed herself to show.

Narcissa was already well into making Draco's breakfast and Ginny was left feeling needless.

“I think I will check on the children,” she announced, Narcissa turning to see Ginny already walking away.

“I will have you in bed within the hour, young lady, so work out those restless legs now, while you can,” she called after her in warning, Ginny's feet all that was left in view at that point. “Oh, my poor babies,” Narcissa sighed, meaning everyone in the house at that point. They were all her babies, and oh how she worried over them despite her own rationality telling her it was futile.

Ginny climbed and climbed until she reached Michelangelo's room. She softly knocked on the door three times and waited, but got no response.

“Michael?” she called through the door softly, trying the knob and finding it locked. He was probably sleeping.

Turning, Ginny decided she would see Clarissa first, and come back to see if she could rouse Michelangelo in a few minutes.

“Claire? Sweetie?” Ginny asked, knocking on the door as she slowly opened it.

Inside, pink was overwhelming. The room, which had once sported the proud colors of Slytherin and had belonged to Regulus Black, had been repainted to look like some kind of fairytale-scape of pink and glitter. Draco had spent meticulous hours with Clarissa and her -Ginny- in that room, painting it together. Clarissa had pale pink walls with white wood trimmings, but one wall had a mural painted across it thanks to Draco, of a sort of fairytale land, a castle in the distance, a dragon soaring through the air, a unicorn galloping past. They all moved, a little bit, occasionally, but nothing too dramatic so as to be distracting. The fairies in the trees blinked many colors, sufficing as Clarissa's nightlight. Ginny was impressed by Draco's talent, one of many he casually revealed and played down modestly despite the obvious pride he took in it. He could sing, dance, played a number of instruments, and was an artist as well. A real Renaissance man. He brushed it all off as something he had done as a boy instead of having friends. There always seemed to be bitter undertones to all that Draco said.

Ginny thought the room as a whole was a bit young for the girl who would be twelve in only a few very short months, but it had all been Clarissa's choice. The dressers were all large with carved roses clustered and cascading down their wooden sides. Lilac -Clarissa's favorite flower- was gathered in vases all around, giving the room a strong perfume. In the center of the room was a large, white canopy bed, lace and pink drapes hanging from the posts and tide back at the moment. In the middle, as though stranded in the sea of pink and ruffles, was a small lump, a mass of impossibly fair ringlets spread out across her pillow. All that was between her and Ginny was a dainty mesh, like a bug-netting, giving the sleeping girl a white glow in the bright sunlight that poured in through the open window.

Ginny always had to stop and stare because of how beautiful Clarissa was. So dainty, so pale, with such beautiful hair, she just didn't seem real. She was like a doll. She understood why Draco wanted a little girl so badly every time she laid eyes on Clarissa. She was just a vision of purity, every parent's dream daughter. Ginny feared, however, Clarissa growing up. She had a feeling she would be a little too pretty for her own good.

“Sweet-pea?” Ginny asked softly, coming up alongside the bed and parting the white haze to be able to enter onto the bed. Clarissa woke, always -like a princess stirred with a kiss- a slight scrunch of her nose and a flutter of her eyes while taking in a deep breath. “Morning,” Ginny said softly while tilting her head, Clarissa rolling her own head over to look up at her.

“Morning,” she greeted back, smiling then, it not quite reaching her eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Ginny asked, still talking in whispers, reaching over to brush away some of the curls that ticked at Clarissa's cheek.

Clarissa didn't have to say anything, just close her eyes and make a barely audible groan for Ginny to understand.

“What would you like me to get you for breakfast? Your nana is downstairs right now making hotcakes,” she said and Clarissa just shook her head slowly so that it rolled in the pillows. “Jam and toast?” she offered and Clarissa responded exactly the same.

“Coffee,” she whispered, only because her voice seemed hoarse and Ginny laughed.

“Coffee,” she said enthusiastically. “You will be a grown lady sooner than I thought,” she teased and Clarissa just rolled over to snuggle with her stuffed Niffler. Ginny knew Clarissa had already developed a taste for her father's obsession: coffee, but wished the girl had asked for something else for breakfast. She would bring her some fruit, hoping that she would nibble on that at least. Clarissa was skinny in a lot of the same way Draco was, but yet not quite so sickly looking and Ginny certainly didn't want it to come to that, so she made sure Clarissa ate. Narcissa ate like an ant, and Draco barely ate anything, and Ginny feared Clarissa was learning unhealthy eating habits from them.

Ginny stepped over the softly grunting and purring pink and purple Pigmy-puffs that chased each other around the room, out from under the bed at present, like static dust-bunnies gone amuck, and left Clarissa to doze while she went to check on Michelangelo. She was able to unlock the door with just a thought and a nudge of her wand which was of course kept on her, in a pocket of her robe. Draco might not have liked magic cast about in him a leisurely way, it didn't mean that Ginny had given it up; she was just more subtle about it now. She was a fully qualified witch, and she made use of her abilities. She knew Draco hated that he was not fully qualified. He had been pardoned by the Ministry, they could not prevent him from getting a wand again if he so desired, but there was this technicality where he had never passed his NEWTs, never taken them actually, so he was not allowed to practice magic. Ginny knew, if the at-home-learning classes would allow a werewolf into their courses, Draco would have already been well-underway towards qualifying. But as it was, he was blacklisted and therefore apparently doomed to live out the rest of his life as a mediocre wizard, something he did not find much revelry in.

“Michael?” Ginny asked, just as softly as she had with Clarissa in the other room. She got no answer.

Michelangelo's room was utterly opposite of Clarissa's. While the little girl's room was bright and childish, Michelangelo's was dark and carried a very adult sense about it. Draco had discovered the secret to removing the posters. They were “un-removable” by magical means, and the harsher the spell used to try and remove it the tighter they clung, but simply going in and gently taking them down by hand seemed to do the trick just fine, a scraper used when necessary. It was like a Chinese-finger-trap, the gentler the more successful. The Blacks, a pureblooded wizarding family with a renowned temper, would certainly never have thought to do anything less than cast spells about the room in their anger and outrage, attempting to clear the walls. It was called irony.

Up still were a few of the posters and clippings Michelangelo had originally liked, but gone were the Gryffindor banners and the old photographs. Draco, unsure of what to do with them, had given them to Harry, figuring any possession Sirius might have cherished would be something he would want to hold on to. To try and cover up such selfless thoughts and consideration, Draco had just drawled on about how he had no use for a bunch of photographs of dead people, such as Sirius and Harry's parents. Draco's thoughtfulness had not been missed by Harry, despite Draco's air of indifference during the exchange. Draco was still learning to welcome people's appreciation for his “selflessness” and it was hard. That had taken place before his most recent therapist visit anyways, so Draco hadn't put such advice into practice yet at that point.

Michelangelo's walls were a dark blue, and his curtains were drawn closed and in a shade just as dark but green. The bed was large like Clarissa's was, but dark brown wood. The curtains that hung from his canopy were pulled closed tight, and matched the ones hung from his window. Ginny reached up to part them, ready to greet the boy, but revealed the bed to be empty.

Ginny looked around, suddenly worried, ready to think the worst. Had he snuck out again? Where was he?

In the corner, looking at her.

“Oh, Michael, you scared me,” Ginny said, placing her hand over her heart, worried and then startled by seeing him sitting at his desk in the corner, it too dark to see much of anything so it left Ginny wondering what he was doing over there. She decided to ask.

“Why aren't you in bed?”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“So you are just sitting here in the dark?”

“Apparently,” he said so flatly it was almost monotone.

“Why don't you climb into bed here, come on. I was just coming in to see what you wanted for breakfast,” she said, patting the bed but Michelangelo not moving but for his right hand that came to rest on his left forearm where a white bandage still clung to guard his burns. “Come on,” she said, patting a bit more firmly. Michelangelo didn't move. “What's wrong?” Michelangelo just sat there. Ginny had a feeling this had to do with the trouble Michelangelo was in, she knew he hadn't been sleeping well as a result, but she was unsure if he had yet read what the papers had printed about him. Was he sitting in the dark like he was because of that? Ginny was willing to stand there, and wait it out, just as stubborn as Michelangelo was, but eventually gave in, knowing that they could stay that way all day, but breakfast could not wait. She rather snuggle with Draco than sit and have a stubborn feud with her quasi-step-son.

Ginny left without a word, resolving to just bring Michelangelo some fruit and hotcakes like everyone else, and headed back down the stairs.

“Thank you, Gin,” Draco said barely five minutes later as he lay in bed, eating those strawberries they had been lacking in their night of romance. He had made up for that with a song, and Ginny hadn't complained with all that sex distracting her, but Draco knew he had to make another night of this romance stuff, to get it right. Surely Ginny wouldn't mind one or two “failed” attempts. Ginny curled up beside him, the tray over Draco's covered lap, the food not disappearing at any discernable rate but that being something that Ginny knew to be normal for him. He would eat for an hour at a time when the average person would be done with the same morsel within five minutes. Ginny was convinced Draco just liked cold food.

“You're welcome, but I didn't make them, your mother did,” she said and Draco just smiled with a mouthful of cake and strawberry syrup before sucking on the tip of his thumb where he had gotten just a little on himself.

“I could trust you not to drug me, but my mother undoubtedly laced this with any number of things,” he said swallowing and looking even more disinclined towards finishing.

“It's in your best interest, and so is finishing, so eat up,” Ginny encouraged, curling into the pillows.

“You would just like to see me fat,” he teased and Ginny laughed at that quite openly.

“I don't think it's even possible for you to get fat, Draco, not according to your mother anyways.”

“I'm sure you would be able to manage, your cooking as good as it is,” he teased, leaning into the pillows that propped him up. He was in pain, he really couldn't eat much, but he was trying, for Ginny.

There was a knock at the door and the both looked over, Ginny reaching for Draco's robe.

“Yes?” she asked as she handed it to him. He was covered by the bedding, but a robe over his thin arms and bare chest would make a better impression while he laid there with Ginny in bed. That and Draco hated showing his scars to anyone. It had taken her nearly three months to get Draco to have sex with her with the light on; even then he had kept his shirt on. He was terribly insecure sometimes, even though he knew she loved him, as is.

“Visitors,” Narcissa replied. Ginny frowned her brow as she rolled out of bed to answer, but the door but it already opening. Fred and George burst in, looking jolly and mischievous as ever, catching Ginny by complete surprise.

“Fred, George, what are you…” she attempted to ask but was unable to due to being kissed by each of her brothers and passed by.

“Hey Draco,” Fred greeted, Draco still tying his robe.

“Came by to have a chat,” George explained, Ginny standing there now by the door, Narcissa just on the other side.

“I'm overwhelmed with anticipation,” Draco said dryly as he looked at them, not in any way hiding his skepticism.

“Ginny, why don't we see how the children are doing?” Narcissa asked, already knowing why the boys where there if she had allowed them upstairs at all, and knowing this was something that would go a whole lot smoother without Ginny there as intimidation. Ginny, thinking she had some idea of what was happening, allowed herself to be led out of the room.

Once the door was closed Fred and George turned to smile at Draco in the bed.

“I really do not need you coming all the way over here to apologize to me because your sister berated you so, and bullied you into doing it,” Draco said, not maintaining any pretense that he didn't know exactly why they were there.

“We were wrong, mate, we were totally in the wrong, and it didn't take Ginny rapping us about the head a few times yesterday to really see that,”

“Though it certainly drove the point home,” George interrupted and Fred nodded.

“So, what, am I to sit here as you profess your remorse and listen to your assurances that you won't be so ready to think the worst of me -or my son- again, while using flattery and charm to sooth my ego and pride?” he asked and George and Fred looked at each other and back at Draco awkwardly. “Very-well, proceed,” Draco said with a wave of his hand, fully expecting a production of sorts that would praise him and assure him how great he was and how wrong they had been. Fred and George looked at each other again, and then to the very expectant Draco, and managed to deliver. Draco's standards were high, of course, but they did a good job at building him up and making themselves seem like fools for having dismissed him like they had. Draco approved.

“Are you feeling better?” Fred asked, a little resentful now that nothing they said sounded all that sincerer because Draco had known their angle from the very beginning.

“Much,” Draco said quite smugly.

“Are we forgiven?' George asked, some part of him hating that he was standing before Draco as he laid propped up in bed, robe on, breakfast before him, begging for his forgiveness. Foregoing the fact that Draco was in bed because he was deathly ill, it was like Draco was some kind of master, and he was some servant before him. He recalled getting thrown off his Quidditch team in his last year at Hogwarts because he had clobbered Draco's face in for insulting his mum. Some part of him couldn't see Draco as any different as he had been then. By the look on Fred's face, he was struggling too.

Draco, keenly aware of what was going on in both the twins' heads, sighed and stopped being so snooty, stopped reveling in their misery.

“Forgiven,” he said, looking at the foot of his bed rather than at them. “Is it too much to ask for the same?” he asked and the boys shifted. “It has been more than fourteen years, as you know.”

“It's just hard to recall what you were like then, and see you now, and not hold some amount of grudge. You were a right-foul-git,” Fred said, George agreeing with a nod.

“I felt much the same about you, for reasons all my own, and yet I attempt to see past that,” Draco argued and the twins looked down. “Who decided to move the party?” Draco asked, knowing he would get an honest answer, one way or another.

“Dad.”

“Arthur still so disinclined in welcoming me in as his son-in-law that he would do this? Draco asked, not letting how much this news hurt and disappointed him. He had thought he had struck a cord with the man, he seemed well-liked enough, or so he had believed. He had thought he was on the way to being a part of the family as far as the man was concerned, rather than just the baby-daddy to a grandchild.

“I think he just wanted to have the party over with. It is rather stressful, and he and mum were left with such a mess after the last gathering…”

“He figured my not being there would prevent such a catastrophe from repeating,” Draco sighed.

“Don't look into it like that, Mate. Dad likes you, you know that.”

“He likes me as much as any father can like the spoiled-brat that knocked up his daughter out of wedlock,” Draco said, looking at his food and not wanting any of it.

“We can move the party again,” George offered but Draco shook his head.

“I rather not force myself onto people who would rather not have me. I think I will allow Arthur to cool down, and have a talk with him, and we can start back at square one in regards to me trying to get into his good books,” Draco said, trying not to sound defeatist, trying to be proactive, trying not to allow his depression over the situation overwhelm him. He spun his ring around his finger for comfort, and strength.

“We had a feeling you wouldn't want to come,” Fred said, reaching into his inner-robe-pocket.

“So we brought you your gifts now…thought it would cheer you up since we knew you would be feeling like hell in a couple of different ways,” George said, mimicking his brother, each pulling out packages that were far too large to have been concealed within their garments if it weren't for the aid of magic.

Draco, despite himself, felt a smirking smile pull at his lips.

“Come on, open'em,” Fred encouraged, he and George each stepping forward to deposit the gifts on the bed before Draco.

Draco looked at them, and slowly, very slowly, a smile started to break through that smirk of his. The twins' charm was hard to resist. They had a way of making you love them, even if you were mad at them. Draco needed them to school him a little.

“Come on,” George pressed, teasing, knowing Draco was on the verge of a smile, not a smirk, but an actual smile.

“I can't imagine what you would get me,” he said, sighing in his defeat and looking down to start tearing at his packages.

“Crap from our shop, naturally,” Fred grinned, their own merchandise being their standard endowment.

“Of course,” Draco said in a mockingly dry way, still having not forgiven them for getting Clarissa those damn Piggy Puffs. He would never forgive them for that.

-------------------

The large, white wolf lunged forward in an image that was a short cycle, a brief moment in time captured and then played back over and over, never to end, and never to proceed. One repetitive lunge after another, the wolf was jerked backwards by the collar and chain that tethered him, practically choking himself, eyes wild, teeth and claws bared before he backed up, snarling and barking, then repeating with another painful looking snap of the head and shoulders.

What was worse than the picture was the caption that went along with it.

“Deadly and Dangerous Draco…Does Ginny Know What She is Dating?” Ginny read aloud, looking at the paper, caught precariously between horror, outrage, anger, and shock. She was pacing in her kitchen, holding the paper in her hands that had just been delivered by post owl, the hearth flaring down still since the arrival of her recently flooed guest, Ron. He had emerged from the fireplace upon floo from Ginny to meet her at once, and he hadn't need to wonder what this was about, only moments before his kitchen fire had burst to life he too had seen the article as his owl had flown off.

“Ginny…” he attempted to console.

“How did they get this picture?” she shouted, shaking the paper at Ron as she crunched the whole thing in her fist as though she would hit him with it. It was only the morning after the full moon, Draco wasn't even home yet, how was it there was already a picture of him in the paper, an impossible picture that no one could have -should have- been able to get?

“I don't know Ginny, it made the morning papers, maybe it was from last month and they were sitting on it until this moon to increase its shock value?” he reasoned, though not sure how he was being comforting and switching gears. “Just calm down, please? Sit with me, take some deep breaths,” he instructed, though in a pleading manner, so she would be more willing to comply.

“Why are they doing this? Why are they doing this to him?” she sobbed as she plopped down on the bench beside her brother. The picture was awful, as was Draco's appearance. She remembered him as the shinning silver wolf that had saved her from a giant years ago in the war, but now years of incarceration, malnourishment, and penning had left him with what looked like a case of mange despite the pride he took in his personal cleanliness as a man. The beast in the photograph looked both ferocious and pitiful. “Is it not enough all he has to endure on any other day, but they would add this to it?” she cried, opening the paper to read a little further this time, still having not yet read the whole thing, not needing to to know how cruel it was. “Ravenous and deadly, Malfoy, above all other werewolves housed in the Ministry's Penitently, displays a viciousness that one would not expect to see from someone taking Wolfsbane on a regular basis. He is chained, muzzled, and tethered while in his own cage -unlike the other's kept- while also segregated from the general wolf population. This leads us to assume the reason is because of this aggressive behavior he displays,” she read, voice firm with rage, words whimpering with suppressed tears.

“You know they are just speculating about shit they know nothing about, based off one picture,” Ron consoled.

“No, listen,” she sniffed. “'Our expert weighed in: `It is not uncommon for a wolf to display different personality traits than his human counterpart, but such phenomena is typically only witnessed when no Wolfsbane is administered. Substantial amounts of the potion having been supplied would lead me to the conclusion that Malfoy really is a highly aggressive individual, this only magnified by his past possession by the…' oh this is bullshit!” Ginny said, dropping the words she was reading to just go off on her own. “That so called `expert' would KNOW -if he really were some kind of `expert'- that Draco was only responding to his environment, and the photographer. We see one picture, how much do you want to bet they antagonized him before they snapped it? You can't put a toe over that red line there without him spazzing out, they could have been encroaching on him and he got protective…I'm sure that's what happened, he was feeling threatened…we all know how he gets when he is defensive,” she said, raging now, standing at this point and now pacing as Ron watched.

“And since when has being possessed by the Dark Lord made someone a bad person?”

“Ginny…”

“Does it make ME a bad person because I was once possessed? How about you, or Harry. Are you all bad people? Draco was put in charge of a Horcrux and it corrupted him, that's kind'a their nature! No one can blame him for that, or they shouldn't anyway, but they do! Fuck!” she ranted, throwing the paper in the fire without giving it another glance, live embers erupting in a small explosion of hot ash.

“Where is Draco now?” he asked, left feeling uncomfortable.

“Recovering at the Ministry. His mother left already, to start on the process of checking him and the kids out and brining them home,” Ginny said, pacing, looking very intently at objects in the room to have something to glare at, chewing on her thumbnail viciously.

“When will he be home?”

“An hour? Maybe a little more,” she said, sounding distant, like her mind was elsewhere.

“You can't let what that paper said get to you…”

“I'm not worried about ME, Ron,” she said, looking at him. “I don't care what they think of me, what a fool I am, how clueless I must be to date a werewolf such as him…I am worried about Draco. It will destroy him to see that,” she said, looking to the fire where the paper was nothing but curling ash at that point.

“He has taken bad press in the past,” Ron offered, though honestly agreeing with Ginny, Draco's insecurity fracturing him too greatly to not leave him devastated by this.

“This isn't just them picking on him for how he looks, or his past, or the unsubstantiated coswallop they are always coming up with, this is them taking a terribly embarrassing and unflattering picture of him, exposing him in a way he never wanted anyone to see him as, and is using it as a means to prey on people's fears and turn more against him,” she said, hands up by her forehead now, like she was blocking the sun from her eyes, but it was more of a gesture of exasperation.

“What are we gonna do?” Ron asked, knowing Ginny wanted nothing more than to ask him that very question.

Ginny paced, and moved her hands from her forehead, to her hips, to her stomach, to her mouth, and back again, thinking the whole time, eyes dancing around the room before she came to stop, coming to a conclusion.

“We can't let him see the article. He can't know of it, not right away, not while he is so sick. And it will have to be one of us that tells him, he can't just read about it, or have someone shove a camera in his face and asking. I couldn't let him find out that way,” she said, hugging her arms then, unable to stop her shaking, her whole body shaking and heart beating with an ache.

-----------------------

Draco was curled up in his bed, sound asleep. He had ridden home in the front seat of his mother's car, curled up and wrapped tightly in a blue blanket, asleep, or unconscious. This was the reason they had the car in the first place. His mother wasn't one for Muggle conveniences, but she needed a way of toting her babies around after the moon. Draco's eyes were darkened, almost like someone had punched him, but really, those dark circles were just caused from the restless night he had had, and the stress of the change. His lips were chapped, and white, like his face, and he almost looked dead. He was utterly still, in the same position he had been laid in when Ron had scooped him up in his massive arms and carried him up to his bed. All that saved him was the occasional breath that heaved his shoulders, like it was painful.

Charlie was in there at the moment, everyone taking shifts in watching over him. It was a job Narcissa had once done on her own, but was now grateful for the assistance as she looked after the children, both conscious but very groggy and fretful. Michelangelo was a whiner, like his daddy, but it was never too obvious until the full. Clarissa was a trooper, but just that sorrowful look in her tired eyes was enough to get even the most coldhearted to drop everything to try and comfort her. It went without saying that the warmhearted Weasleys were at her mercy at that point.

“It's half past noon, has he woken yet?” Ron asked as he came to switch with Charlie, Ginny there to make one of her frequent checks on him.

“No, he hasn't moved a bit. It's a little unsettling, watching him lay there like that. I almost wanted to move him, just so he wouldn't be all curled up like you left him, but I feared disturbing him,” Charlie said, looking back at Draco as Ginny sat beside him, blotting his forehead with a damp rag.

“He'll be alright, nothing he hasn't gone through twelve times a year for the last fifteen years,” Ron said while slapping his older brother on the back, honestly just as worried but being strong for his sister who was worried restless and his brother who was so new to all this still.

Charlie vacated the room, to join his family downstairs, and Ron turned to Ginny who was speaking softly to Draco, pleading for him to wake up.

“Come on, just open your eyes for me, baby. Please?” she asked, voice a barely audible whisper but one that Ron could not miss.

“He will wake up when he is ready.”

“He needs to eat or drink something, before he gets dehydrated, more than he already is,” Ginny said, like she knew what she was talking about, even though she had only gone through this with Draco five times now. She knew enough to know that he needed to be up by noon, no matter how exhausted he was, or waking him up would get progressively harder and harder. She had his bunny Leak tucked in his arms, knowing, when he woke, that he would want Leak and preempting that search so he would wake with his comfort already there. She knew he thought the stuffed-bunny was a secret from her, but being one that made the bed frequently, and his hiding place for him being under his pillow, it hadn't taken her long to discover Draco's fluffy-little-secret.

“Should we call for a healer…?”

“They won't come,” Ginny said in a tone that was nearly snapping, ringing her rag out and blotting it over Draco's lips as though to moisten them. “It is the day after the full, they wont make house calls to any werewolf's residence unless it is declared an absolute emergency, otherwise they would be on endless calls to every achy wolf in London, and they are not about to be shorthanded at the possible expense of Human patients being neglected, not for a bunch of werewolves,” she said bitterly.

“Hermione can have a look at him again.”

“I will try to wake him myself. Give me half an hour and if I can't we will have her come up. He won't like it if we call her unless there is no other choice,” she said, brushing Draco's fine hair away, going back to talking to him in a manner that implied she was done talking to Ron on this matter.

“Come on, babe, you have to get up. Wake up for me? Please?” she asked, scratching at his scalp like she knew he liked, occasionally reaching around to rub his back, hoping to rouse him gently.

“Wake up you lazy twat!”

Draco breathed deeply as he sat up some, roused by a familiar voice, his hair a stuck-up mess.

“Come on, get up, it's morning, come on,” Christina called from her cell, Draco looking around with groggy eyes, his cell still dark. He flopped back down onto his pillow that was thinner than a book and made to go back to sleep, when a clang against his bars made him groan and pull his short, thin blanket up to his chin, him curling his legs more to attempt at keeping his feet covered.

“Wake up, it is the first day in the pit, come on!” Christina shouted, throwing another tin cup at him and causing a resonating clang to reverberate in Draco's cell.

“It is bloody dawn, woman, go back to sleep and let me be,” Draco grumbled, sticking firmly to his resolve to go back to sleep.

“You are not excited?”

“Clearly not as much as you, may I enquire as to why that is? What is so wonderful about being forced out into the open weather and all its harshness for an hour?” he asked, eyes closed.

“If you were here, as long as I have been, you too would revel in the opportunity to have real, actual human contact for a moment,” she said, pacing around her cell.

“Well, you have fun with that `Human contact' and you let me know how that goes. This werewolf, however, is staying right here,” Draco yawned.

“You can't seriously be choosing to stay in; no one chooses to stay in.”

“It is not mandatory that I parade myself out of this cell to be amidst a sea of prisoners that loathe and hate me. I was beaten enough as a Death Eater, I can't even begin to imagine the abuse I would endure as a traitor. I can stay here, you will tell me of the adventure when you get back and we will talk, for hours, as always,” he said, mind already drifting to sleep.

“Has it even occurred to you that my excitement in not due to me getting out of this damned cell, but because it will allow me to be with you, for the first time, not ten feet apart and separated by bars?” she huffed, Draco opening his eyes slowly, trying to work his mind around that.

“You couldn't mean me.”

“Who the fuck else would I be talking about?” she snapped, hands on her narrow hips.

“You were going on about some human contact…”

“Oh come off it already, you insecure little bastard. I have endured you whining about being a werewolf long enough, now get your pasty arse out of that bed this instant and throw on that extra shirt I tossed you and lets get moving, you will need to pace around to build up some warmth in those joints of yours, so lets have at it,” she said, snapping her fingers at him as Draco groaned. He just wanted to sleep.

When the sun was highest in the sky, it cast itself down into the pit, and it was then time to allow the prisoners out, by block. Block A had been the day before, now Block B would be released, and C -consisting of only two at the moment- would be joining them.

Draco was shackled while still in his cell, as was Christina, and they were then shackled together, so fewer guards would be needed to oversee their move. Draco stood beside Christina and for the first time could appreciate how tall she was, or maybe just how short he himself was. Their chains were cold as they bumped between them, but Draco felt something warm frequently brush his hand, and he knew it was hers. He dared a glance over his shoulder only once while the guard was distracted with the unlocking of a great heavy door, and Christina smiled at him in a mischievous way, eyes heavy-lidded as always but this time burning with something he had never seen in them before.

It was a long winding trek down to the pit. Every corridor was sectioned up and locked off, making it impossible to escape, but it slow to move even with permission. Each door was manually unlocked, the check points and change-offs were many, and the sense of dread in some sections was so intense Draco had to fight not to sob a few times as the most unpleasant memories of his life played before his eyes.

Finally, however, there was one final door, one final lock, one final check point, and with a groan of weathered hinges, the door swung open into a brightness that burned Draco's eyes and caused him to nearly spin around to shield himself. He found himself only inches from Christina's front as she too turned -but only her head- away, and it would have been so easy to just lean into her at that point, feel her body against his for the first time, but he was yanked by the chain around his throat by the guard that led them along, and he stumbled backwards, away from her, into the noon-time light that washed over him, causing him to disappear in her vision for a moment in the white brightness.

The clanking of chains was both louder and quieter out there. The space being wide open and free meant the echoes of their chains was gone as well as less harsh, but there were more chains outside now, their soft, constant rubbing and bumping fading into the background to almost become a part of the scene.

“Over here,” the guard said, tugging on Draco's collar. Christina was only shackled wrist and ankle, chains all leading to a belt around her waist like the other inmates, but Draco was collard on top of that, the collar a permanent accessory of his, the muzzle something he was grateful to do without today.

Draco was unchained first, thought the belt, collar, and shackles stayed, the chains were evaporated into smoke with a flick of the guard's wand.

“You have one hour,” he announced, Christina nodding readily despite the cold, Draco just pulling at his heavy iron collar to try and swallow better after having been tugged so many times by his throat. The guard didn't seem to like Christian's eagerness, but said nothing on it either. He simply moved away to deal with other prisoners, slowly the sound of many people talking taking the place of chains.

Draco had Christiana at his back and he was suddenly very nervous. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his chin was tilted down. An itch was crawling up his spine to linger between his shoulder blades where he knew her eyes were focused. This would be the first time the two of them would be face to face in such a way, and he could not explain his nervousness. This was Christina, his cell-block-mate, a woman he had been talking to for the last month, a woman he had said a great deal many personal things to, and knew a great deal about in return as a result of their deep conversations. He knew her, so why was he scared? Was he scared because he knew her? He had opened himself up to her so greatly, but he had always had that wall between them, literally bars, so as to still feel safe, protected. Here, outside, in the open, he suddenly felt naked, and he suddenly felt her hand grab his.

“You look more nervous than a pixy in room full of cats,” she said in a way that was almost condescending in its comforting but teasing tone. She had grabbed him by the hand while behind him, and was now using his arm to steer him, to turn him around to face her, Draco keeping his chin down. “Come on, I don't bite,” she flirted, reaching over to tilt his head up so she could look upon him for the first time in the sunlight, in such minuet detail, in such vicinity. Draco kept his eyes down at first, but eventually, timidly raised them to finally meet hers.

He was shocked by what he saw. Her eyes, in the sunlight, shone like a cat's, the pupils contracted so tightly that the green was nearly overwhelming. He could see now on her fair but warm skin that she had a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, like they gained vibrancy from the sunlight, but more than just her striking features and presence, her hair burned. What looked wild and red in their cells looked ablaze and insane in the sunlight. Every wild curl caught the sunlight and glowed a sort of orange that made it seem like she herself was giving off a light. She was so tall, and thin, but so womanly with her bosom right up there between them. Draco, fair and nearly washed out in the sunlight with his short messy hair, silver eyes, and willowy frame, seemed to recoil, like he could not compare to her. Christina didn't seem dissatisfied, however, and looked Draco over thoroughly, longingly, Draco burning with a pink blush by the time she had come full circle to be looking deep into his face again.

“It's good to see you up-close, finally,” she said, never having let go of his hand.

“You look quite lovely out here in the sunlight,” he flattered, it difficult to sound nonchalant about it while blushing and looking down as he was.

“Why thank you,” she said in a haughty tone that was both teasing and arrogant and oh-so-alluring at the same time. She squeezed his hand and held it for a moment, and Draco eventually squeezed it back, finding reassurance in that.

“No need to be nervous, I am no different out here than I am in there,” she said, speaking of their lonely little block, “I am simply able to do this now,” she said, reaching over to grab a piece of his hair and push it away, as though that simple and singular gesture would be enough to make his unkempt hair tame. “My little-fair-haired-boy,” she sighed, pulling him a little closer by his hand to get him to take a step, attempting to get him to walk with her. Draco did, followed obediently, and it seemed the farther they got from the door from which they had entered through, the more relaxed he became. There was a moment where he was looking around the slick muddy pit in excitement and curiosity, but it was a bell-arch, however, and it quickly dropped back down to him being fretful as several men approached, inmates, prisoners, haggardly men looking quite ill-contempt and harsh.

“Christina, a new pet have you?” the first man said in a voice so gruff it seemed inhuman.

“I see it as no nevermind to you one way or another,” she said dismissively. “Charles, Nax,” she then said curtly to the other two men, inclining her head towards them as though these pleasantries were formal, like they were not all dressed in flimsy prison garb and in a pit of freezing mud. Draco tried not to make it seem like he was cowering behind her as he, well, cowered behind her.

“What's his name? He looks like he is twelve,” the first man said, looking around Christina's shoulder to eye Draco, by far the smallest of the group. This first man had managed to keep quite a bit of mass about him, not a fatness, but that bulkiness that lumberjacks had, and trolls. Just a hugeness with broad shoulders and a full ribcage, all balanced on thick stout legs. The other two men were tall and lanky, in a way that suggested that they would have been strong built if they ate more often. It was obvious they had all gotten to be this way over time, and Draco feared what his fate would be if he entered this place as tiny as he was to start.

“He is seventeen, and you leave him alone, Germus,” Christina warned.

“Seventeen? Isn't he a little young, even for you?” he retorted with a harsh smile that revealed some battered looking teeth. Draco swallowed.

“He is a man, and I will take up issue with anyone who dares says otherwise,” she said firmly, Draco grateful for her defense, but at the same time feeling it might not be a good idea for him to build a contention between himself and other inmates while relying on the protection of a woman, a woman who would only be there with him for a couple more months.

“He looks like a mamma's boy,” Germus jeered, the men with him grunting in their apparent agreement. “He looks like he is about to piss on himself and then start crying about it,” he laughed, laughed until Christina's palm made contact with his nose in a harsh, sharp, quick upward thrust. Germus, whose eyes had been closed in his cruel taunting, was caught completely off guard, and doubled over to curse and groan into his hands has he cupped them over his face. Draco felt Christina's hand leave his to take a firm challenging stance by herself, looking like she was ready for a throw down with anyone that would have at her.

“You want to add something Charles? How about you Nax? Broken noses are all the rage this season,” she said, voice so calm in her threat that it was doubly frightening.

Draco just looked at them timidly from around her shoulder hoping they wouldn't get the impression that he was all for a fight, not really sure he would handle himself all that well. The men just stared at him for a long moment, recognition dawning on them eventually.

“This wouldn't be a little Malfoy would it?” Charles asked, the first thing he had yet said, his voice just as thickly Scottish as Christina's.

“And that matters how?” Christina asked.

“I know some blokes who would love to see you,” Charles said to Draco, Germus still bent over with his broken nose held in his hands. Christina's expression darkened as Charles called over for some men to join them.

“Yaxley,, Goyle, have a look at what I just found,” he shouted, two men approaching.

“Well, well,” Goyle sr. said as he was the first to approach. He took Draco in -the boy that had once been his son's best friend- and nothing but the look of utter loathing was there. Draco swallowed hard, and flinched as he was spat at. Draco was shivering, not shaking in fear.

“Little Draco,” Yaxley said, apparently reveling in seeing the young man who had been up on that rooftop with him during that final battle, who had turned traitor and helped Harry Potter defeat their Dark Lord, sending him into this hellish pit, there as well.

“That's enough,” Christina said, taking to stand between Draco and the Death Eaters.

“Hiding behind this woman now, Draco? Hid behind daddy first, but now he's dead,” Yaxly teased in a mocking baby voice. “Tried to hide behind mummy, but that didn't work out too well, apparently. Hiding behind your aunt got her killed, and hiding behind that foul snake Severus,” he said, spitting on the ground “only got his traitorous ass killed too,” he said and Draco did his best to keep his hurt off his face, but this place, and all its contempt, and pain, and despair, made it hard to cling to those masks of his that had once helped him survive while everyone else around him died.

“Keep it up, Yaxly, you wouldn't be nearly this bold without a bunch of guards watching. Draco would tear your arms off and eat the flesh off your fingers for breakfast you worthless pile of shit and filth,” she said, talking down her nose to him, Draco looking at her, positive he didn't want her making threats on his behalf.

“Is that so?” Yaxly said, looking over at Draco like he had been the one who had said it. Draco shook his head minutely and Christina did him the service of once again speaking on his behalf.

“Yeah, that is so, so why don't you take your stinky little friends and bugger off before he unleashes some beastly hell on the lot of you.”

“With the guards watching?”

“You think they will be able to do anything in time before your arm's off, or at the very least you have been infected?” she asked and the men seemed to take that in for a moment and looked uncertain. “It only takes a scratch. One bite. Is it worth contracting Lycanthropy? Proving how tough you are by picking on a woman, and a seventeen-year-old who half your weight?” she challenged, the men all glaring at her.

“Move along all of you,” a guard announced, obviously addressing them, clearly not liking the hostile cluster they had formed but missing the roughing that had happened already. Christina stared down the men for a moment longer before they backed down.

“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Goyle warned, pointing at Draco, Draco's mouth opening in an outraged `but I didn't even say anything' manner as the men abandoned them there. Christina watched them as they went before turning to face Draco.

“Whoo, you ARE brave,” she said, grinning down at him.

“I didn't do…I didn't say…” he said, moving his hands around in a circular motion as though trying to express his distress with them alone as words failed him.

“Don't worry about them, they are full of piss and wind. They will glare and threat until they are cross-eyed, but they can't do shit with the guards around, and they can't get to us any other time, so they are left with nothing else to do but sneer at a distance in our general direction,” she assured, looking so unbothered by the confrontation that Draco felt even more ill-equipped for this environment.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand, “I know a place where no one will see us, for a handful of moment anyways. It will give us a chance to talk, or whatever,” she said, rushing off with Draco to sit in the far corner of the open courtyard, by a dead tree and between a mound of dirt and mud and snow and the wall. They were still rather exposed, yet they seemed so secluded at the same time. Draco crouched there, not wanting to sit and dampen his trousers, and hugged is knees for balance and warmth. Christina sat beside him, but could detect his distress and felt the need to be comforting, as she often did while talking with him.

“Don't listen to Yaxly, or any of them. They are blaming you for why they are here, and are therefore being harsh. It's no fault but their own that they are here, and you can't let them win by withdrawing like that. You can't back down, empty threats are all they have, and you can fight back with your own, don't just take what they dish out, they will just think they are getting to you, and they do not deserve that satisfaction. You have to take those that would kick you and serve it right back to them. If you only take one word of my advice, Draco, it would be to fight, and bite back at those who would push you, okay? I don't ever want to see you defeated, you are much too rare and special to be on the treads of the boots of shitheads like them,” she said, Draco just looking at the mucky ground just past his knees.

“Isn't there a downside to being so aggressively defensive?” he asked.

“Isn't it a far worse existence to be a beaten dog?” she asked, Draco unable to disagree with her. “I knew your father, by the way,” she said, that managing to get Draco to finally look at her at least. “I met him while he was here, while out here in the pit. I recognized your strong resemblance to him from nearly the beginning, but it wasn't until your hair started to grow in that I knew for sure. I talked with him, he was a good man,” she said and Draco looked down. “I heard he died, but he died here Draco, it wasn't your fault, Yaxly was just…”

“Telling the truth,” Draco sighed, not about to cry, no way about to cry about his daddy, not with Christina looking at him.

“Draco, no,”

“No, there are things I still haven't told you, things I do not really want to share, things that hurt too deeply,” he said, shaking his head and burring his chin deeply into his knees.

“Draco,”

“My father died as a direct result, a direct consequence, of my actions. My aunt died fighting for what she believed in, but I could not support her in those beliefs, and because of my reluctance to offer her a hand, she died. My mentor Severus Snape died because I could not fight, because I froze under pressure and could not act. He took a spell meant for me, ending his life so that I might live,” he said, hugging his knees painfully tight, Christina frowning her brow at him. “My threats are worthless, the emptiest any could be, because I am not a fighter, I am not a mean vindictive person, which is how I got myself into this mess in the first place. I wanted to be a Death Eater, like my father, but I have my mother's nature, I am timid and useless. I failed time and time again and people around me were the ones that were punished. It is not in my nature to be so harsh, though I have my father's temper…I am just a stupid lonely little boy that never had any friends but the ones that were ordered to be, that never saw anything outside his own sheltered existence for far too long to build the necessary social skills to survive a place like Hogwarts, and I am a sobbing worthless pansy that can't hold on to his wand in a fight to save anyone's life, much less my own,” he said, a single tear from each eye finally rolling down each cheek.

“No, Draco, no,” Christina said, falling off the balls of her feet to be on her knees before him, using her how free hands to hold the sides of Draco's face and forcing him to look up, even though he was tensed and struggled to remain balled up and looking way. “You listen to me, and you listen good,” she said, her accent somehow aiding in her ability to get him to give her a listen. “There is nothing wrong with your nature. I have seen it, and you are spinning it all to be negative, when all I see -what anyone would see if you let them- is a sensitive boy, lonely yes, who has compassion and an immense ability to love. You are a rare thing, Draco, especially in the environment you were raised in, and you should guard that, never lose that,” she said, using her thumbs to wipe away any evidence of Draco's tears. “Promise me. Look at me Draco and promise me,” she demanded, giving his a firm shake, “Protect yourself, like I said, so that you never lose that vulnerability in you that makes you so alluring,” she said, still holding his face and giving him another little shake for emphasis.

“I promise,” he said, Christina seemingly letting out a breath of relief.

Draco looked up at her slowly, and they stared at each other for a long moment, or a brief moment, neither of them could tell because there was nothing outside each other's eyes, no passing of time and no consequence. When Christina's lips planted themselves on his slowly, but firmly, Draco just closed his eyes and allowed himself to pour into her, to allow her to know him, feel him, be a part of him. He could only do that through contact at this point, but the effect was all the same as his arms found themselves wrapped around her tightly, his knees connecting with the wet but frozen mud so that they were both kneeling up, holding each other tight, kissing as though this was their last moments. Christina was clearly the more experienced kisser, but Draco was no novice, and feeling her body pressed up against him was amazing. Draco kissed her and it felt almost like they had made love by the connection he had opened with her using his still developing skills, but it would not get that far, not today. Today they kissed. Today Draco felt secure.

“Come on, Angel, you need to get up,” Narcissa said, scratching at her son's scalp, Draco taking a deep breath as he was pulled from his sleep. He opened his eyes slowly, a flutter of his lids first before one slow blink. What came to focus was not the redhead of his past he had every night in his dreams, but the redhead he had now, in his daytime hours. Ginny was face level with him, obviously crouching beside the bed.

“Upsydaisy,” Ron said, somewhere from outside Draco's still limited sight as he woke up further. He was seeing a lot of red around the edges, and his body felt like it had gotten in a fight with a Bludger, or three, and lost. Ron had Draco by the shoulders and was sitting him up. Draco did not fight him due to his body being so limp, but he made his protest known by his indignant and wordless moaning and griping. “You're not going to like this, but stay still,” Ron said, holding Draco's chin so his head would stop swiveling loosely, and Draco flinched and attempted to weakly recoil as he felt something enter his nose.

“Don't move, Draco, please,” Ginny comforted as she pet his arm and Hermione worked, Draco lacking any strength to do anything but groan in his discomfort as the tube was slipped in his nose to then slide down the back of his throat.

“There you are,” Hermione said, using a piece of simple medical tape to tack the tube to Draco's left cheek before hooking it around his ear. Ron laid Draco back down and Draco made to reach up and pull at the tube but was easily thwarted by Ron gently grabbing at his wrist.

“You're really dehydrated, mate, this will make you right in no time,” he assured, Ginny holding Draco's other hand for comfort and reassurance while also preventing it from pulling at his tubing either.

“Draco, can you look at me?” Hermione asked, the tip of her wand barley aglow as she slowly moved it back and forth, clearly using it to examine him. Draco's eyes opened, and his pupils contacted, though a little unevenly, and Hermione sighed and put her wand away.

“He is seriously dehydrated, and his blood sugar is low, both the possible cause behind his seizure,” she said, Ginny holding Draco's hand a little tighter, Ron just looking down at Draco who was licking his lips, showing a clear desire to speak.

“Please…” he said, voice just a rasp the first two times he tried. “Please tell me I did not have a fit,” he managed, though barely.

“You gave us all a fright,” Ron said, Ginny looking frazzled with worry.

“You're alright now though,” Narcissa said, down by his knees, close to Hermione. “I haven't seen you this bad in a while,” she said and Draco just coughed in response. Ginny was so guilt ridden over this, but no one in the room understood. She blamed herself for the condition he was in, like if she had only denied him a little more firmly the night before the full he wouldn't have gotten in the condition he was in now.

“We will get some liquids into you, something sweet, and we are going to be waking you up frequently, Draco,” Hermione explained, Draco groaning and wishing he could just roll over and go back to sleep. No one in that room was even thinking about mentioning that article to Draco at that point. One of them would have to tell him, gently, but when? He looked like death, even if he was just drained and dehydrated, but surely being told the whole world now believed they had concrete evidence that he was some vicious animal would certainly not help anything.

Draco found Ginny in front of his eyes and all he could think was “how are my babies?” to which she answered for him.

“Michael and Claire are both fine, both resting, both awake and alert but tired. The baby made it though the night without incident,” she assured, and Draco, not sure if he had actually projected his question to Ginny, or if she had just known he wanted to know, was relieved at the answer, and was able to close his eyes while holding Ginny's hand, her giving him a squeeze which he drew so much comfort from, him giving a weak squeeze back which was a comfort to her.

Summery:

We opened with a flashback. I haven't done that in a while. I wanted people to see what I see, which is what Draco likes about Christina so much…she is DAMN charming. Draco woke and there was some lovely bonding tender moments between him and Ginny…after he put his ring back on. Narcissa and Ginny got close over the five moths they have lived together? Seriously, Narcissa isn't nearly as insufferable as she seems to be accredited as. If Claire was ANY sweeter I would get a cavity, and I want her bedroom. Michael and Ginny didn't have a tender bonding moment. Seriously, are you guys really expecting that still? Do I have to basically tell you flat out that it ain't gonna happen? These things take time.

Fred and George are classic. You know I love them and couldn't let you all hate on'em for too long. Yay for Draco/Weasley-brothers bonding. Was it Author that changed the party plans? Yes. Why? You will find out in the next chapter.

Oh dear, that terrible photo. I saw this one coming and was dreading it. Who, what, why, how? It will al be revealed next chapter. Yes, Draco was once possessed. It is part of the prequel that I am writing. It is actually a cool part of the story.

Draco is sick. What else is new? The Ministry sucks, what else is new? The Weasleys banned together to help out after the moon, however, so yay. Ginny couldn't take all the burden herself, so her brother's are FINALLY helping her out. Nice of'em, right?

Flashback Fun: I do love this one. Christina out in the Pit, with the other Death Eaters, making threats on behalf of Draco…he will take her later *tugs at collar uncomfortably* She is charismatic, you have to admit. You can see her, in each memory/flashback, molding Draco into the man he is today. We see Draco be more honest with her than he has been with anyone in this story of mine. She seems to have good, and bad, intentions as far as Draco is concerned. She seems genuinely concerned with his wellbeing, and with getting in his pants. She is such a funny bint.

Some people seem bothered by how much she looks like Ginny. I think you are making the red hair and freckles too weighty. Beyond that they really don't look much alike. Christina is 5'10, thin as hell, with a long face, hooded green eyes, full lips, etc. Ginny is round: Round brown eyes, round face, supple body, 5'5 etc. They are redheads, that's about all.

Author's note:

*The bit about needing to have passed your NEWTs to practice magic is just a conjecture of mine. I would assume that a skill that holds such a danger and risk, something that can cause great harm and destruction if used improperly, would be regulated in the sense that you needed a permit to practice…much like you would need one to hunt or own a gun, or drive, or own a tiger, etc. I always assumed Fred and George got their permit upon leaving Hogwarts through those at-home services (like the mail-order-lessons Filtch was attempting to learn magic through) and in the last book it is said that parents had the option of training their children in magic at home, so clearly there is some kind of external-Hogwarts qualification regulation. Blah-blah, I spend WAY too much time thinking about HP and not enough time looking things up on the Lexicon to see if there is an actual answer anywhere. My fiction, my rules.

* I do seem cruel to Draco, but I do not mean to have SO MANY bad things happen to him, I have surprisingly little control, but can you believe it if I said things can get worse? Yeah…*hides* Sorry that Draco is so ill, this is only the second moon we have gotten to share with him, and it is the worse of the two, but he will be alright. I always assumed, even with Wolfsbane, the whole ordeal is extremely taxing, otherwise I don't think Lupin would take off class time (especially knowing that Snape would gladly temporarily fill the position) and miss Christmas that year too. *pats Draco…and Lupin*

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Fallen Angel

Chapter 07

Draco remained in bed, woken every hour by one Weasley or another, forced to eat some crackers or drink a little something, but he struggled to keep even the lightest, most bland things down, so he was reduced to having stomach-calming potions and hydrating liquids administered to him through the tube. Draco hated that Granger had tubed him, he felt insulted, disrespected, but he couldn't fight it either, not with what strength he lacked. His mother had been right, however, he hadn't been this bad in a while, typically a little less gravely than this, but she did not know about him spending the entire previous night up with Ginny, or that he hadn't been eating again, or that he had been working out at a gym facility a few times a week. She would have a fit, he could practically hear her rant already, even with him so helpless in bed she would shake him senseless.

As it was, as he was, his senses were a little off that day. He could not see well, and his ears were ringing on and off again, and his sense of smell seemed to fixate on only the smell of his own vomit in the pail beside his bed, demanding him to have it removed and emptied. His memory was also seriously fractured. He normally did not remember much from the full the next day, and typically it was just a contemplation of uneventful and rather relentless tedium, but today, no matter how much he thought on it, he just could not recover anything. Every time he tried he got a headache and had to ask for the lights to be dimmed for a while.

“Good dreams, mate?” Ron asked as he entered the room, Draco waking, Fred leaving to allow Ron to take over for a while, Ron taking a bulk of the vigilant watch, knowing Draco much preferred talking to him while awake than any of the other Weasley brothers.

“I do not dream,” he said, daring to stretch a little, but not so bold as to move much, just the shift from side to back as he laid there enough to make his stomach queeze.

“Right, you only remember…right?” Ron said, sitting at the spindle-legged vanity and dwarfing it. Draco said nothing, Ron knowing already and just trying to make conversation. “That's gotta be taxing. Are they always, like, completely accurate, or are they tainted by your opinions and evolve over time…?”

“They are events, exactly how they happened, they do not change, as much as I would love them to. They are as real as the day I lived them, and when I wake they are as true as I last saw them,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did whenever he had a headache.

“Does that mean you have a good memory?” Ron asked.

“No better than average, my memories don't come to me when I call, they come and go as they please, and whenever I sleep, in whatever sequence they choose. It is one of the things that landed me in therapy,” he said, rolling his head to look at Ron, knowing the man was uncomfortable about something, and unsure of what, but sure it had little to do with how sick he was. His head hurt too much to read Ron properly, but those things he just knew, and wished he could implore further without straight-up asking, but doubting he would like the answer. Draco was in a mental debate with himself and wondered which would will-out, his curiosity, or his pessimism. In the end his headache won, and he decided to let Ron fret over his own issues while he simply focused on his own.

“Have you been talking to anyone…?”

“Just you,” Draco said, basically cutting Ron off. He would have said Ginny, but that much was a given.

“You haven't asked for anything, can I get you something?” Ron asked, looking like he needed a purpose. Draco couldn't help but notice this and look over at him again. He was used to Ron being kind to him now, but things seemed…off.

“You are being awfully nice to me, Ron. Despite myself, my extensive therapy bill suggests that I listen to my good doctor's advice on not rejecting such sympathy, but I can't help but wonder what you're getting at,” he said, eyeing Ron with great suspicion, Ron looking taken aback at first, and affronted, as though he was offended that Draco would think he had some kind of secondary motive, but the act was poorly played out, and shallow and Draco saw though it faster than Ron was able to give up on it.

“I am just concerned for you, you little prick. I hope you're happy, making me worry about your pasty arse,” he said, Draco already narrowing his eyes. “Don't,” Ron said, looking away though knowing that would normally not help with Draco so close. He hoped Draco would be limited in his weakness that it would matter this time that he couldn't see into his eyes. “Don't do this,” he pleaded with his hand now clamped over his eyes, feeling the weight of Draco's mind pressing in on him. “Please, don't.”

“What has happened?” he demanded, Ron refusing to even uncover his eyes still. “Don't make me look, I will likely only hurt myself trying, and then will you be?” he threatened, like a little boy holding his breath to get his way, intent on self-harm to force others who cared about his wellbeing to cave in prevention. Ron sighed.

“Just the same old garbage, Draco, honestly.”

“What article did they print about me this time,” Draco said, Ron cursing that Draco was able to get that much out of him and fearful that this was all about to come undone with Draco's ever pressing curiosity. He would find out by reading his mind a piece at a time, and that would be harsh. He needed to tell Draco, before that happened.

“Ginny wants to wait to tell you, until you are feeling more up,” he said, internally screaming as he clenched his fists, wishing he had spent more time rehearsing how he would go about telling Draco about this. He had come up with a dozen different scenarios in his mind, based off a dozen different reactions Draco could have, but none were well thought out, and none ended well in his own mind, thus why he had abandoned each for the next.

“I want to read this article,” Draco said firmly, able to sense at least Ron's internal conflict and able to make the deduction, just from that, that it was bad.

“Draco, no, you should really be told first, rather than just seeing it…”

“Let me see it, you have a copy in your back pocket,” he said and Ron nearly growled in frustration, it impossible to hide things from Draco if he was determined to know, understanding now why he and Ginny bickered so much. She couldn't keep anything from him.

Ron stood up and walked those few paces to the bed, pulling out and unfolding the story as he went. Draco snatched it from him with a curt gesture and pursed lips, like he hated that he had to resort to so much just to get his way. Ron backed up just a step, knowing Draco's haughtiness would not last for long, and he would likely be in much greater need for comfort than anything.

Draco snapped the paper crisp, it just being a clipping, though a large one, and his eyes seemed to fall still the second they came upon the large picture front and center. His eyes narrowed, but in a way that implied he was simply trying to see as he held the paper close to his nose, and Ron just shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Give me my glasses,” Draco said to Ron though he was still looking at the paper so near to his face.

“Draco-”

“Hand them to me!” Draco said, nearly shouting, something he never did. His voice would have sounded angry, if it hadn't cracked, almost like he was tearful. Ron obliged, nabbing the spectacles off the dresser where they had clearly been laid for the night, and Draco slipped them on to furiously read the article at a rate that would make Hermione sweat in awe. Ron watched, waiting to see Draco's reaction, and it caused him to crumble to see Draco's face do the same.

“Dre, really…it…”

“Who…who wrote this?” he asked, trying to sound as calm and reasonable as possible, but it was not a very convincing act with how badly his hands and breath were shaking.

“Some chap named Agreus Kniklock,” Ron said, having looked for the name of the author himself, needing to know whose body it would be he would burry later.

“Why…why did he write this?” Draco asked, his voice crumbling now too, Ron caught there, unsure what to do or how to fix this, or how to comfort Draco.

“I don't know, mate, who can say why people do mean things?”

“This picture…how did he get…why…why would someone do this?” he asked, the first sobs leaving him as he looked at the bit of paper before him his beast staring right back, growling at him viciously. He hadn't seen his own beast in years, it wasn't something he made a habit of checking in the mirror everyday, but Draco saw him staring at him, and it scared him, made him feel sick, made him feel exposed.

“I'm going to go get Ginny,” Ron suddenly announced, fleeing the room in a cowardly fashion, unable to handle Draco crying. Gryffindor or not, what bloke could sit there with his pal and just let him sob? Harry cried a lot, and he was just as uncomfortable, but they had been mates for so much longer. Draco and him were still new to each other, there was still a level of animosity between them and thus a certain distance they both remained at. It was slowly closing in, and past feelings set aside, but he couldn't give Draco what he needed right now, so he would fetch him someone who could.

“Draco,” Ginny said only moments later, so angry with Ron for having gone ahead and told Draco, but so distracted in getting to Draco that she didn't even bother to properly reprimand him, let alone let him explain. She just rushed in and was up on the bed with Draco within moments, and Ron left them, sure Draco wouldn't like -later- to know he had stayed and watched him cry.

“Why…I don't understand…I…”

“Shh,” she said, comforting Draco in his tearful attempts to communicate with her how he felt. It was not necessary, she knew exactly how he felt. Draco just curled up against her to cry, because that was all he could do, and just the reaction he had to things like this. Some might call him a cry-baby, or even a sissy, but he challenged anyone who would dare call him such things, to have to go through what he did, and what was happening now, and see what their reaction would be. Anyone that didn't cry was a better man than him.

Ginny rocked Draco for a while, no words shared between them, but he seemed to draw very little reassurance from this, or at the very least showed no sign of relenting in his sobs. His mother came in, her face fraught with worry and hurt for her son, her angel, and she sat beside him, Draco immediately switching to latch onto his mother, crying still. Ginny looked at him, so sad for him, feeling so helpless. She looked up to see Michelangelo standing in the doorway, looking drained and weak, but his face like stone as he watched his father cry. Ginny rolled herself out of that bed and quickly moved over to the door, closing it behind her as she grabbed him by the shoulder to force him to take a step back. She did not want him seeing Draco cry.

“You should be in bed,” she said, trying vainly to act like nothing was wrong, that Michelangelo had not seen the inner happenings of that room.

Michelangelo allowed himself to be led back to his bedroom without a word and with no protest, and it wasn't until Ginny was tucking him in that he spoke, face still as stony as before but eyes blazing.

“Who wrote the article?” he asked, Ginny just pausing in her fluffing of his pillows. “Who wrote it?” he demanded, that familiar temper of his flaring.

“You just need to rest and never mind what people say about you, or your father…”

“I don't give a shit what they said about me in that paper! They are a bunch of morons who wouldn't know up from down with a locating charm. Tell me who wrote that article about my dad because I'm going to kill'em,” he said, Ginny a little alarmed by how serious Michelangelo sounded.

“That's not exactly incentive for me to tell you, now is it?” she said and Michelangelo looked mutinous. “You just need to calm down and be rational, for your father's sake. He is upset enough as it is, and he doesn't need you doing anything stupid to…”

“You think I'm stupid do you?” he snapped.

“Michael, I didn't say…”

“You just think I'm a stupid boy that does stupid things, and makes stupid mistakes, and that I cause my father a lot of unnecessary stress,” he accused and Ginny was caught between assuring Michelangelo that it is not true, and getting angry with him for talking to her in such a tone.

“No, I don't, but I certainly think you say some pretty stupid things sometimes,” she said, straightening to place he hands on her hips.

“You are willing to let someone do that to my father and just get away with it? You are supposed to love him,” Michelangelo accused.

“There isn't a thing we can do, so long as no laws were broken, and so don't you dare try and imply that I don't care enough about your father to do something, I just know what sorts of things would make this worse,” she said heatedly, heavily implying that Michelangelo were incapable of handling this rationally, thus why it was not up to him, and that did not bode well with the young teenager.

“You can leave my room now,” he said, crossing his arms and flopping against his pillows in annoyance. Ginny wanted to stay there, and straighten that boy out, but she knew Draco needed her more, and he wouldn't like it for things to get any worse between her and Michelangelo.

She stepped outside, closed the door with a firm snap, and stalked down the hall in a mild fury until she reached the stairs; she was then overcome with unexpected tears. She had to cover her mouth and sit down, holding onto the railing the whole time, just sobbing there for a moment, feeling quite possibly as helpless as Draco at the moment, though feeling like a lot of pressure was on her to make things better when she wasn't sure how.

Ginny cried there, alone on the steps, not sure what to do about anything.

----------------------------

“I am going to take that bell and shove it so far up his…”

“Ronald!” Mrs. Weasley scolded as she entered the room.

“Sorry Mum,” Ron said in a sulky fashion upon being reprimanded by his mother.

“It was you who offered to wait on Draco hand and foot,” Ginny pointed out, sitting at the table and the one who Ron had been talking to. He had offered to tend to Draco because he had wanted Ginny off her feet and relaxing since she seemed so stressed and upset. It also didn't seem fair to have the whole family put aside their lives to each take turns watching Draco sleep, and Narcissa had been doing this for far too long on her own, so he had taken over solo. But now Ron seemed to be having second thoughts, a little bell chiming in the room arousing a vein to bulge on his forehead. “I told you not to give him a bell,” Ginny said, attempting to not laugh at her brother as he glared at the little magical bell that hung from a small hook on the wall, mirroring the jingle Draco was causing his all the way upstairs.

“First he is too cold, then too hot, then he wants to be alone, then he complains that no one is tending to him. He doesn't want food but demands a damn jar of peanut butter. He is driving me mental,” he grumbled, Mrs. Weasley standing behind Ginny to slowly run her fingers though her hair, twisting it in her hands affectionately.

“You best go see what he needs,” Molly said to him but Ginny held her hands up.

“I'll do it, he clearly is just being a pain in the arse on purpose, and milking this at the same time, and dragging me up there will guilt him into letting up some for a while,” she said, both her mother and brother wanting to argue against her, but the little bell chiming again forced them to agree.

Ginny climbed the stairs and knocked on the door, and Draco said nothing.

“Draco?” she asked through the wood.

“I called for Ron,” he answered.

“He is in the loo, I am here to see what you need,” she said though the door still. Draco didn't respond. “You are driving him mental with that bell, which I think was your aim, but do you think you are ready to come downstairs yet? Come on, it's late, you can get out of that bed for an hour, watch the telly…”

“I would rather stay in here, thank you,” he said, it clear he was avoiding media as a whole given the article that was published.

“You can't stay in there forever,” Ginny said, placing her hands on her hips.

“Yes I can,” Draco said childishly through the door. Ginny wasn't having this. She flicked her wand in silence and the door unlocked and burst open at the same time to allow her to walk in. Draco was just a lump under the blankets, and she sighed, fists on her hips in standard position.

“Stop this. Come on, you are feeling better, yes?”

“I feel like shit,” he said flatly.

“But better than before. I bet if you go downstairs it will be enough to prove to Hermione that you can do without the tube anymore,” she argued and though that seemed like a perk, Draco didn't leap at the idea. “Draco, stop hiding, come on, this is silly.”

“I want to stay in here, and left alone. The second I leave I am vulnerable to the world; under this blanket I am safe from everything. If I leave its refuge next I'll be diagnosed with cancer, or have the house repossessed…I don't know, which is worse than what has already happened?” he grumbled.

“Don't act like your mother now, this isn't the end of the world, or a start of a series of adverse events.”

“Surly I have to build up to cancer a little bit more. Next I will probably just go bald,” he said as though he was not listening to her.

“Oh Draco,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes which Draco could not see. “You have always had a shallow hairline, it's the same as your father's, you are not going to go bald. You shouldn't listen to those nasty papers,” she said.

“Thank you, Ginny, for being so dismissive. The next time a tabloid calls you fat I'm just going to tell you to get fucked,” he snapped from under the sheets.

“Draco!” Ginny responded in outrage, knowing exactly what Draco was doing. “It's not MY fault that picture ended up in the paper, so how dare you take it out on me!” she snapped back. “This is exactly why people can't stand to be around you, you are so damn mean when you feel vulnerable and get defensive! You are deflective, you take whatever shit you get and just throw it in someone else's face, and it's really fucking wearing! I have been putting up with your childish tantrums when no one else will, and I shouldn't HAVE to! I don't have to be here, Draco, with you, but I CHOOSE to be, because I know you are a genuinely decent person…I know, I have seen him…when you are not being a total arsehole!” she yelled at him, Draco very still under his blankets, Ginny's rage and stress that had been building over so many days, weeks, months finally boiling over like an unattended cauldron. She couldn't take much more of Draco if he was going to be this way, no matter what his excuse.

Ginny turned to leave, almost leaving the room cold with her exiting.

“Grow up, Draco,” she snapped over her shoulder, leaving the door wide open, not caring, storming down the stairs and into the kitchen where she -without a word to anyone there- grabbed her cloak and Disapparated herself to the Burrow, her mother sure to follow. She couldn't spend the night with Draco, she needed space to clear her mind.

---------------------------

Ginny was in the Burrow's living room, sobbing into her mother's shoulder; Molly just stroking her daughter's hair, letting her cry, knowing the amazing healing ability of a good cry. Ginny cried herself to the point of a headache, and though that did not feel better, she felt like she had let out a whole lot that needed to get out, and she could deal with just about everything a bit better, with a little less pressure in her chest. Still, she had just walked out on Draco, when he probably needed her the most, and she felt terrible.

“Don't beat yourself up, Ginny darling. I might never have told you this, but I have walked out on your father more than once. Not since we were young mind you, but sometimes it's important to storm away before you say something truly regrettable,” she said comfortingly.

“I did say some terribly regrettable things,” Ginny sniffled.

“Nothing that wasn't well warranted, in my opinion. Draco is darling, you know I have grown to like him quite a bit, but he is still very…harsh. I'm sure it's everything his parents did to him, but I hold out hope that he can be housebroken,” she said, stroking Ginny's hair slowly as the shared the loveseat.

“This is the exact reason I did not marry him when he proposed, he is too much of a boy still, and not in a cute way most of the time,” Ginny said, blotting at her eyes. “I convinced him to see Harry's therapist, because they act so much alike, and I can see how much Harry has benefited from his time with the man…but I don't know if I can endure another 5 years of hell with Draco like I had with Harry,” she said, a sob bursting from her in the end which she sucked in with quivering lips, her nose runny. She wasn't a girl that could cry and be pretty while doing so. Her nose got red, eyes puffy, and she seemed to cry, drool, and have a runny nose all at once. She couldn't imagine crying without these things though.

“And what do you mean `what his parents did to him'?” Ginny suddenly reacted.

“Nothing,” Molly sighed, shaking her head.

“No, tell me. His mother made him paranoid as shit, and apparently his father was tough as troll skin which made Draco distant, but so what?”

Molly sighed, fearing she had said too much already but in a position where she would be forced to say more.

“You…you did not know him as a little boy…I knew him from when he was tiny. The Malfoys were in no way friendly with us, but I would see wee-little-Draco toted along by his parents, and I knew how he was being raised, and it was almost cruel if you ask me,” she said delicately.

“How…how so?” she asked, having lived with Narcissa for months now and not seen anything peculiar. She was actually a really doting mother.

“I'm not saying this excuses anything now, but…” Molly considered her words. “Well, other than the repent brainwashing, he was isolated,” she explained. “His father did not allow him out of that house or its grounds for years. Your father and I were friends with several who worked in the manor at the time, and they told us about how they were forbidden to speak to Draco, and he was provided with no playmates or exposed to other children. He was just up there all alone, with his horses and house-elves,” she said and Ginny blinked. “When he was about six I think Lucius took him out of the house for the first time, and Draco was terrified, clung to his father's leg while hiding under his robes the entire time. If all that weren't hard enough on a child, Narcissa was -is- so concerned that he would catch something from some grubby child she forbid him to do just about anything, convinced that poor darling to fear or at least be weary of even his own shadow. She does that still, with Michael and Claire, if you haven't noticed,” she said and Ginny nodded. “Draco was precious then, when I first met him in Diagon Alley, shy and so timid, and actually really polite. I think he protects himself now, like he sees something wrong with being that way, being himself. His father certainly hadn't approved. Dragged Draco off by his collar after Draco had tried to chat up Ron.”

“He has never said anything about…”

“When does he ever talk about anything in regards to his father or his childhood?” Mrs. Weasley asked and Ginny nodded. “I'm no therapist, but I know children…Merlin knows I have dealt with my share of them in my life,” she said and Ginny managed to smile. “I think he has just been led to believe that what is acceptable and what is expected of him is to be cold and harsh, like his father was, and that conflicts too greatly with how he is naturally. That and he does have that famous Malfoy temper.”

“I wish I could just go and give him a hug, and start over,” Ginny sighed, wishing that since before her mother's story, only now too wishing she could cry again but her eyes were spent.

“In the morning we can go back, and you two can kiss and make up, like any other couple. He needs you, but you need him just as much. You wouldn't keep falling for this kind of man if you didn't like something about taking care of them,” she said and Ginny placed her hand on her large stomach.

“It's that deeply seeded mothering instinct of mine. I don't know where I get it from,” she said and her mother laughed, having much the same attraction to Draco, this desperate desire to just scoop him up and care for him. She had had that instantly with Harry too. She understood that Ginny loved Draco, and knew that this minor incident was unfortunate, but not detrimental to the lasting stability of their union. Stress was high at the moment, and emotions were stretched thin.

One good thing to be said about the Malfoys was their sense of honor and loyalty. Draco would not abandon Ginny, so long as she did not abandon him.

----------------------------------

Draco was still clinging to his mother like a Sticking Charm had been put in place. Narcissa did not mind, it was nothing she had not experienced in the past, and she was grateful Draco had cried himself dry of tears at the moment, but she still felt awful for her baby. She had seen that foul article that morning and had gone all the way to the Burrow just to scream about it (screaming something she never did, until now) so as not to wake anyone sleeping after she had just gotten them home and in bed. She had seen it upon coming home, and it was a damn shame, because if she had known when she was there someone had gotten into the penitentiary with a camera and taken a picture of her angel, she would have made her indignation and outrage known, by all.

Footsteps, heavy ones, could be heard approaching the door, and Narcissa knew Draco was awake -despite that she could not see his face- by how he clung to her shoulder just a little bit tighter. The door opened and Draco tried to act asleep while his back was to the door, but it was no good, there was no way he could be sitting up in bed and holding to his mother's side so tight if he weren't awake to some degree or another.

“May I have a moment?” Arthur implored, speaking to Narcissa. She looked at him, then down at Draco, before nodding in her silence and making to get up. Draco protested by clinging, but she pulled away to leave Draco to just tip over and lay on his side, back to Arthur the whole time.

Narcissa left the men alone, closing the door quietly, and Draco still maintained his façade, even while Arthur spoke.

“Hey there, Draco. I realized I never actually talked to you today. I have been here most of the day, but you were always asleep while I was in here,” he said and Draco gave no reaction. “I really wanted to talk to you,” he said, Draco making no sound, no response. “I think there has been some kind of misunderstanding with the party, please, let's talk about it.”

“Talk about what? That you moved the party to be the day after next so that I would be unable to make it, and you now claim it is just a mistake?” he said, still curled up on the bed but wiggling now to be under his covers, no longer pretending to be asleep and his mother no longer there to keep him warm. He was quite cold.

“Draco, no, see, I didn't know you knew about the change in plans, I didn't want you finding out through someone else because I knew you would not be told the reason. I was going to tell you in person…”

“Tell me what? That it would be less bother if I didn't come?”

“You are looking at it like I don't want you there, Draco, but that is not true. I thought you wouldn't want to come, given what happened last time.”

“So you are spinning this like you are doing me a favor?” he barked.

“Draco, listen to me,” Arthur said while sitting down on the end of the bed. “I thought you would be so bothered by what happened that you wouldn't want to come to the Burrow again. I thought it silly to have you postpone your birthday for so long to just have you not enjoy it in the end anyways. I figured, if you didn't come, you could just do something with Ginny and the kids, and not have to deal with what Phinn had said to Michael. Yes, I heard about that, and I'm sorry. Phinnaeus was completely in the wrong, and I can't believe a child of Bill's would say something like that,” he explained, hoping Draco would attempt to sense his sincerity. Draco just remained silent. “Come on now, please, you know me, you know I think you are darling, don't choose to take this all the wrong way, come on,” he said, pushing at Draco's foot that was under the covers, trying to encourage a reaction. “Come on, you know you just want to have your birthday party already,” he said, pushing more, voice a little taunting, encouraging, friendly.

“I don't think even a party could make me feel any better at this point,” Draco finally mumbled.

“That article…I don't know how these people were raised, or where they get off doing something like this, like they are oblivious to the pain they cause,” Arthur said darkly.

“Schadenfreude,” Draco mumbled.

“What?” Arthur asked, not understanding.

“Schadenfreude, it's German and means `happiness at the misfortune of others',” Draco explained.

“Draco…”

“People enjoy the suffering of others, of me, because they can take pleasure in not being them, in not being me. It makes them feel good about their situation.”

“That's terrible. How could anyone think that about another person?”

“I am not a person to them,” Draco sighed.

“But my daughter is, one would think for her sake they would cut you some slack.”

“They think I have her under some spell,” Draco mumbled, not really thrilled to be talking about Ginny when she had just walked out on him. What kind of jackarse did one have to be for their girlfriend seven months pregnant to walkout on him?

“Absurd, if they did any research into that they would know you can't use magic…that accusation is completely unfounded,” Arthur said sternly. He knew Ginny was at his place, with Molly, it was part of the reason he was here now, talking to Draco.

“If you look carefully at the end of every article, after they spin an entire story about me or Ginny, is says `sources from the Ministry' or, `sources close to the pair' whichever, `say this rumor unsubstantiated,' so I cannot sue, and if I try and speak out against it, it becomes a case of me protesting too much, only convincing people further that it is actually true,” Draco said, giving up on hiding to sit up and prop his elbows on his bent knees, to rest his forehead in his fingertips. He still had that stupid tube in his nose, and that movement tugged at it and made him swallow convulsively in his discomfort.

“I can take care of you, Draco,” Arthur said, Draco just shaking his head while still propped up. “No, I can take care of this for you, and I will,” he said, it not being an offer at that point.

“Thank you, Arthur, but there is no point in you getting in the middle of all this; people will be more willing to turn their backs on you than welcome me in. I wouldn't do that to you, I feel bad enough for what your family goes through already,” he said.

“Draco,” Arthur sighed, moving to sit beside Draco but maintaining a certain amount of comfortable -masculine- space. “You have gone from calling me Mr. Weasley to Arthur, when will you start calling me dad?” he asked.

Draco just looked uncomfortable.

“I am not here to replace your father, or take the place he once held in your life, but I am here to be a father-figure to you. Come on, you need one, I know you do,” he said, looking over at Draco, Draco just looking down at his toes, wanting to hug his knees and hold his toes like he always used to.

“I have not had a good run with father-figures in my life. My father died, my father-figure Paul died, my father-figure Severus died, my newest father-figure Coderdale just died…all I have is Lupin at the moment, and though he has been fatherly to me, he too is growing quite ill, and I fear his pending passing.”

“Draco-”

“I'm a plague to father-figures,” he moped

“No.”

“I wouldn't do that to you-”

“Stop it-”

“You have children of your own,” Draco said, each talking over the other, Arthur having about enough of Draco's pessimism.

“Alright, that's enough,” he said, placing a firm hand on Draco's shoulder. “I am not making an offer of this, I am telling you, you need a dad, and I'm going to be him, because my daughter loves you, and you are a part of this family now, whether you like it or not,” he said, as though that were a threat. Draco smiled a little, not looking at Arthur yet. “As a father, I do not allow anyone to mess with my children. As your dad now, I won't allow anyone to mess with you,” he said and Draco finally looked up at him, tube still taped across his cheek, eyes still so deeply circled, so tired but grateful.

“Thank you…dad,” he said, finally said, Arthur leaning over just enough to take the hand he had on Draco's shoulder and reach around with it to hold his other shoulder then, pulling Draco into a one-armed hug so that Draco just tipped stiffly into him a little.

“You really do have a kind nature, Draco, and it's a shame so few people get to see that,” he said, Draco seeming a little bashful at Arthur's praise but not refuting it, not denying it, for once. He instinctively wanted to pull away and deny that, and be nasty as though to prove him wrong while driving him away, but Draco recognized this, saw it as him sabotaging it, and stopped himself. He needed to allow himself to be vulnerable sometimes, as much as it risked hurting him, because the reward was so great. Or says his doctor. Draco was wiling to allow the man this shot, but if something bad happened to Arthur because of this, and by extension this became just another terrible experience, Draco would never listen to that man again.

As it was, however, he owed Ginny another really big apology…if she would have him that is.

---------------------------

By the next afternoon, despite the fact he felt awful, Draco was out of bed. He wouldn't allow himself to lie in bed and be waited on. As much as a part of him kind of liked that, a bigger part of him hated feeling feeble, so he was in the living room right now, in his chair, wrapped up in a blanket despite the fact that it was a warm day in July, and he sipped at his coffee. He had just finished his dose of Wolfsbane, the first of many in this upcoming month, and needed to wash it down with something that contained no sugar. The cup was held up to his mouth even though he was not taking a sip at the moment, like he needed the smell under his nose more, and he was looking off across the room though it was clear he was not seeing anything there. His mind was focused on the radio that was on beside him, a magical tuner, the voices drifting out of the old lit up tubes concealed in its open wooden frame.

“I think it is appalling, actually, that this is now the third month that this has been going on, and the Ministry still has done nothing, still denies the problem exists at all!” the woman said, the debate fierce.

“There is no evidence of any foul play and it is not up to the Ministry to…”

“Is it not their jobs to protect the magical community?” the women interrupted. “Werewolves are a part of the magical community, whether some like it or not. As are Unicorns, Hippogriffs, Dragons…Why is it all these creatures are being poached and no one is doing a thing about it?” she demanded.

“First off, to make this perfectly clear, there is NO evidence that Werewolves are being harmed,” the man said firmly. “The issues pertaining to some rogue Werewolves gone missing is a different case all together, being dealt with by the Beast Committee, to ensure the safety of the people, magical and otherwise.”

“How can you say they are unrelated when the timeframe of these events coincide so closely…?”

“Furthermore, the illegal poaching of several protected magical beasts has led to an investigation by the Ministry, who are diligently looking into the matter, but we have no reason to suspect there is some illegal profiteering going on in the black-market of magical beast paraphernalia.”

“I think the Ministry is just talking through their…”

“Alright, that is all the time we have for today's `Hot-Topics' Debate!” a third man suddenly interrupted, preempting the woman's harsh words, stopping the debate before it became a fight and regrettable things were said over the air. Draco was listening to this because Dean Thomas was the host, and it was actually a fairly reliable, unbiased (meaning not Ministry run or funded) show that gave cold-hard-facts and didn't sugarcoat things. “I'd like to talk you, Magdalene, for coming on. As always you were as relentless and hard hitting as a rogue Bludger. And you, Gangly, for being as witty as the bat,” Dean said and Draco smiled into his coffee. “Tomorrow we will be discussing ethics in the field of reporting, and so until then, keep your cauldrons clean and your wands out of your back pockets!” Dean said, signing off for another show to come on, likely news, though to keep ratings up the network had allowed onto its waves a few gossip shows.

Draco sighed when his luck would have it, one started to air.

“Shocking photos, a scandalous article…we have the exclusive on Draco's reaction to these developments by those who know him, next,” a woman said, sounding overly dramatic. Draco sat there, still unmoving, eyes on the tuner now. He knew no one “close to him” would talk to anyone about his private life -they all know he would know if they did so no one dared even a thought of it- so he wondered who the channel was trying to pass off as their source. He knew the person wouldn't be named one way or another, and they could just make it all up and no one would know otherwise…except him. Part of him was curious to find out what they would say, a larger part of him was just too comfortable to get up to adjust the tuner.

“Also, the photographer who captured the now infamous shot arrested? Only we have the braking story and the facts as to why the man was apprehended by the Ministry of Magic just hours after the publishing of his article. All this and much more, today on Gossip Goblin,” the woman said, ending with such a rushing excitement tagged onto her voice, even Draco was mildly interested in what they had claimed.

Unfortunately, he would have to endure their segment about him before they would get to the part he wanted to here about the photographer, and that certainly left Draco in a bit of a foul mood. He kept his coffee under his nose to try and prevent a scowl from setting in too deeply, but he found it hard to not curl his upper lip as he listened to all sorts of poppycock about him. Were they reporting that he cried like a bitch? No. So therefore they weren't reporting the truth, but claims of him throwing a temper tantrum and putting a curse on the photographer were so far from the truth that Draco was almost able to pull some kind of morbid amusement from the story. They had no idea what a tantrum was for him, but if they wanted to know, maybe he would demonstrate for them, for the sake of good and accurate journalism.

Draco lit a cigarette and puffed away at it in his irritation as he listened on.

“And Agreus Kniklock arrested? This development is nearly as shocking as the photographs taken. Just after one, the day the photos hit the newsstands and flew into the homes of the magical community all over Brittan, Agreus Kniklock was apprehended by the Ministry of Magic and detained within their Department of Aurors. The Ministry did not release a statement, but Kniklock's representatives assure us he is not being charged with anything serious, and it is a matter of security. Apparently cameras are not allowed within the Ministry and Kniklock submitted that he was not aware of this. He was released within an hour and we are told he faces a fine for the indiscretion. A price paid for hard journalism,” the woman said but her voice abruptly cut off when the tubes in the tuner cracked and then exploded, Draco unfazed by this as he continued to stare across the room, eyes slightly narrowed, cigarette perched at his lips.

A fine? The man sneaks a camera into the Ministry but then claims he hadn't known it was against the law (so why hide the camera and sneak it in in the first place?) and he tore apart his -Draco's- life, and all he got was a fine? A bloody fine?

Draco was not happy.

He took a deep breath of his cigarette and stretched a little, reaching over to set his coffee down on his little chair-side table. He took one final drag before pounding it out in his ashtray and abandoning it there to scratch at his scalp while looking around the room. He missed Ginny. Without her waddling around the house, rubbing her tummy distractedly, fussing over him, making him smile, he felt so empty. She wasn't there to scratch behind his ears or give him something to hug or shoulders to rub. He missed her long red hair sliding across her back in the sunlight that poured through the windows. He missed her laugh that filled the rooms and hallways of the old house. He wished she were here with him right now, so he would know that everything would be alright, everything outside their home would work out because they had each other in here, to protect and reassure one another.

He didn't have that, and he felt vulnerable and raw.

He looked down to scratch at his scalp more, all his hair falling forward, Ginny able to slip into the room at that point, unnoticed. Draco sat there for a brief moment, hair all draped forward, fingers gripping the roots, before he raised his head and pushed his hair back in one sweeping motion, taking a deep breath at the same time, opening his eyes to see Ginny standing there.

“Hey,” she said tentatively.

“Hey,” Draco said back just as awkwardly.

“I…I was told by your mum that you were in here,” Ginny said softly, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder while taking a hesitant step.

“Yes, well, I couldn't lay about in bed all day,” he said, wishing he could stand but his cane out of reach and is legs kind of heavy. Ginny didn't get very far into the room before she stopped, and what loomed over them was such an intense weight of discomfort, of things unsaid, they couldn't even bear to look at each other.

“What happened to the tuner?” Ginny asked in a desperate attempt to break the silence.

“It has always been a bit touchy,” he said dismissively, glancing over at the still lightly smoking broken glass and cracked wood. He could also see his ashtray sitting there in plain sight and cursed, wishing he could hide it away before Ginny noticed it, but then there would still be the smell.

There was another long moment of silence before they both tried to simultaneously break it.

“I…” they said but then stopped, both about to let the other to go first, neither taking the charge.

Draco, the mind reader of the two, knew Ginny was feeling guilty, and frowned his brow, not willing to let Ginny blame herself for the fight when it had been him that had been the one in the wrong. She had simply called him on that, it's what he loved about her, her -sometimes- brutal honesty.

“I am sorry for last night. I shouldn't have yelled like I did, or stormed out. After all you have been going through and how hard you are trying, it wasn't fair,” she said and Draco had been shaking his head from the start.

“You have nothing to apologize to me about, Ginny. Yes I have been dealing with a lot, but badly, and it has been unfair to you how I have reacted to one thing after another. What you said yesterday needed to be said, because it was true. Nothing that could possibly happen to me can ever give me the right to treat you like I have in the past,” he said, really wishing he could stand now, scooting a little in his chair to be closer to the edge but so exhausted by just that that he knew he had no hope of standing. Ginny saw his desire, however, and moved over to him, to close that distance he couldn't himself.

“We were both wrong, you for how you act sometimes, and me for how I react to things sometimes. We are both a little hot tempered,” she said with a grin that was so infectious that Draco was too within a moment of looking up at her.

“You, a fiery red-head, it sounds alluring. I'm just a bastard,” he pouted and Ginny shook her head while squatting down.

“No you're not, you are just poorly socialized. We can fix that, no worries,” she said, pushing his hair back so she could see his face clearly. He looked so tired, so ill. His throat was bruised so she understood where the soreness in his voice came from, and his whole body quivered, like he was cold. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked as she stood, hoping he would give her something to do so she could care for him and make him all better. It's what she needed to do.

“I feel fine, now that you're here,” he said, leaning into her, wrapping his arms around her to press his cheek against her stomach and just take a deep breath in, knowing her scent and comforted by it. Ginny allowed Draco to hold her, and sniff her, and be comforted, because that's what he needed, but also what she needed. No one could cuddle like Draco could.

--------------------------

“Happy birthday, Draco dear,” Molly said as she entered the room, arms held open in a welcoming fashion, expecting a hug. Draco was in his bed, but not alone this time, and in much higher spirits than in many recent weeks, probably the highest since moving into the house. All around him were Weasleys, the brothers mostly, a few of the wives, and Arthur. Ginny, Narcissa, and the children were there too of course, as were Tonks and Lupin, and Harry and Hermione, so it was quite crowded, but in a comfortable enough way.

“Thank you, Molly,” Draco said, allowing the woman to scoop him into a large, warm, squishy hug, him turning his face away to not have it fully planted in her bosom, and was smiling when she pulled away.

“Here you are, dear, I normally do not offer these until Christmas, but you don't have one already since you are so new to the family, and you are always cold, so you get one now,” she said, offering him a shallow square box with a large green ribbon tied around it to hold the lid in place.

“Uh-oh, we all know what this is,” George laughed as the rest of the Weasley boys…men…joined in with much masculine chuckling. Draco smirked up at them in a jeering way as he opened his gift to reveal a Molly-jumper. It was dark green and upon its chest was a bright green dragon worked into the front, cradling a D almost as large as itself. Draco had to endure much laughing for a moment, thanking Molly over the noise, pulling it on with poise to shut the boys up. He loved it, it made him part of the family now, he didn't care if they were all finding such amusement in it.

“You look darling,” Molly gushed, reaching over to pick a fuzzy off his shoulder and to brush at it, as though it could lay smoother with a bit of effort on her part. Draco loved her doting, it was different than her mothers. His mother was more of a “little less noise” where as Molly was more of a “turn down that racket or so help me!” which Draco appreciated. He loved them both, because they were so completely different.

“You have to open mine now, daddy,” Clarissa insisted, having already waited long enough apparently, in her opinion.

“Awright, awright,” he said, raising an arm to pull his hair out of his jumper's collar and hold it up long enough to allow Clarissa to swoop in and confiscate his lap. “Oh,” he groaned as she sat on him. It was not a terribly painful groan, it was good natured, but still, she was going to be twelve, when would she become too old to insist on always sitting on his lap?

Draco took from her the small package and could feel that it was something soft by how is squished in his grasp below the paper. If she was giving him a Pigmy Puff he was not going to hide his lack of elation. Had had just spent the last six months exterminating all the odd critters that had taken up residence, and now he had a whole new infestation on his hands, and they chirped and cooed all night as they drifted about in the drafts of the house.

“I saw it while out with Nana and Ginny and knew you just had to have it,” she explained and Draco was instantly relieved to know it was something bought and therefore not a puff of fluff. Draco tore the paper which then unrolled to let fall into his hand a roll of silk. It was a necktie. Draco looked up at Ginny, who clearly knew already what it was, and he was not reassured by her tightlipped smile and hand nearly over her mouth. His mother was busy preening herself, and the Weasley blokes were all leaning around each other to see what it was he had gotten. Michelangelo just sat on the bed, hugging his knees, sitting very close to Draco but not touching.

Draco unrolled the tie to reveal that it was a very dark blue, with tiny silver wolves lined across it in staggered rows. Draco let out a breath that was like a laugh, and smiled, seeing the joke and pursing his lips together to prevent himself from smiling. This was not funny, he told himself as Clarissa looked bright-eyed and Ginny looked positively beside herself in her attempts to stifle her giggles.

“Look, they're little wolves,” Fred teased, filling in the rest of the room who might not have been able to see.

“Fitting,” Percy said, Charley laughing, Bill smiling. Draco looked up at them, daring them to laugh then, but they didn't heed his threat, they could tell he was trying not to laugh as well.

“I figured you would wear it to work, once you got a new job,” she said so sweetly, effectively killing the jolly mood that had been rolling around the room. She clearly did not realize what she had done, because she seemed to be expecting everyone to laugh and agree, instead they cleared their throats and shifted uncomfortably. No one in that room other than Clarissa it seemed, had the optimism -or dared to be so bold- as to hope that Draco would be able to get himself a job any time soon, not with everything that had recently happened on top of his already haggard reputation as well as his past working against him.

“Thank you,” Draco said, breaking the awkward silence created unintentionally by his well meaning daughter. “I will wear it to my next interview,” he promised, giving her a big hug and saying “I love you” into her hair as she clung to him like he was the last solid thing on earth.

“Birthdays call for drinks!” Harry announced, who remained relatively reserved throughout Draco's mini-party. He was invited, but not welcome. It was difficult to be around Draco because though there was not open hostility between them, there was a cold animosity on Draco's part that just exuded distain and abhorrence. As far as Draco had gotten with the Weasleys, he hadn't budged when it came to Harry, or Hermione. The two as a couple just gave Draco something to loath as a whole, directing all his detestation in one unified bearing. It wasn't fair, but no one seemed willing to fight with Draco on it. They were grateful he was as friendly as he was, they felt it was a lot to ask of him -so soon, so fast- to be chummy with two people he possibly hated the most in the world. Even if he didn't admit it to anyone, Draco was trying, given his therapist's words, but he found it easy in theory but not practice. Hermione was taking care of him, Ginny, and their unborn child at personal risk of loosing her Healer License, and Harry was never one to pass up an opportunity to be a Saint, but maybe that's what irritated Draco most, they had abandoned him and were still acting as though their shit didn't stink.

“Draco is not to drink,” Narcissa said sternly.

“Oh, come on, Mum, it is my birthday,” Draco whined, the Weasley boys -men- all chortling amongst themselves at Draco acting like his predictable whiny self and mamma's-boy.

“Your birthday was last month, and you are not allowed to drink,” she said flatly.

“It is my birthday party, am I not allowed one toast?” he pouted.

“Absolutely not. You have been sober for almost a year now, you are staying that way, and you are far too ill to be downing alcohol anyways. No, no, no,” she said in tones that made it clear that that was the final word in it, though that did not stop Draco from sitting there and pouting for a minute, trying to persuade her.

“Like you would know what sober is,” he said under his breath once his mother was out of earshot, over talking to a few of `the wives' who seemed to agree with her.

“It's alright, mate, I'll get you something to drink once you are out of bed,” Ron said, flopping down on the mattress hard enough to make Draco bounce up slightly.

Ginny sat down beside Draco, so he was in the middle, Ron on his right, Ginny on his left, Michelangelo a little behind him and near Ron, Clarissa on his lap, the Weasleys all around, talking, all holding plates and forks as they ate cake and stood.

“Happy Birthday, Draco,” Ginny said, leaning in to give him just the littlest pecks on the lips while handing him his slice of cake. The cake looked positively gruesome with its bright red interior. It was a red-velvet cake with raspberry filling, Draco's favorite.

“Thank you,” he said, curling a piece of Clarissa's long hair around his thin finger, not touching the cake right away but knowing everyone in the room was looking at him out of the corner of their eye to see if he would. Everyone was convinced he was anorexic, even if they said nothing about it. He knew what they were thinking. “Why do both your mum and dad have to use the word `darling' to describe me?” he asked, Ron snorting a laugh, Draco ignoring him to just look to Ginny, who was smiling.

“What, you rather they hate you and use different words to describe you?” she teased.

“No,” he pouted. “But darling is something you call a pixie,” he griped, still twining a piece of Clarissa's hair.

“You are a total pixie, mate, just deal with it,” Ron said, giving Draco a firm but singular pound on the back which was a bit rougher than Draco needed because he said “ow” which no one responded to because that was just Draco being a whiner, as always.

“The party moved back to being in the end of the month then?” Draco asked, Harry nodding, Ron doing so too because he doubted Draco would acknowledge Harry.

“Yeah, back to the end of July, you're welcome and all, but it won't be your party anymore, so don't be thinking you will get special treatment,” he said, nudging at Draco who just “ow”ed again.

“What are you doing tomorrow then?” Harry said to ask as he held Hermione's hand, attempting to make civil conversation, always willing to be the one to extend to olive branch but always the one to get it snapped back in his face.

“Oh! Dad is taking me to Diagon Alley for my wand!” Clarissa beamed, eyes alight with excitement, her whole body sitting stock straight up as she still sat plopped in Draco's lap as she ate her cake, requesting the piece with the biggest frosting flower on it.

“Are you up to that, mate?” Ron asked.

“I typically worked the second day after the full, so it is nothing I haven't done before: crawled these old bones out of bed,” he said with a shrug, looking behind him to pat at Michelangelo's foot to be sure he was included as he sat so quietly. He gave his son a warm smile, which was recuperated with a wearer one, and Draco just patted his foot again, turning to look forward once more but leaving his hand back there to be with his son, should he need it. He was still angry with Michelangelo, but he never wanted his son to think he did not love him, or believe he would exclude him from anything. Michelangelo's foot found itself in Draco's hand and Draco smiled, knowing that bit of affection was quite a lot from his son at that point. He gave it a squeeze, giving the boy that assurance and comfort, Michelangelo seemingly encouraged by that enough to even kindly -though quietly- thank his uncle Percy for the slab of cake he was just offered before digging in.

“You know going out will only get you swarmed by people, so soon after that article,” Hermione said, Draco not turning to look at her as she spoke, facing stubbornly away as he responded.

“One: I cannot hide forever, it is either sooner or later I am going to have to venture out for the first time, so why drag it out and put it off? It won't make it any better and the dread will just have time to build. And two: I did nothing wrong so I likely won't be shunned, but pestered and possibly avoided -out of fear- which I actually wouldn't mind too much. My welcome just about anywhere has never been warm, so I can't say this will be that great of a diversion from my typical experiences,” he said quite curtly, leaving the “I'm not a coward, I will not hide in shame” part unsaid but heavily implied. Ginny hooked her arm with his encouragingly, Ron looked a little irritated that Draco was being so crisp with Hermione, and Harry just seemed to sigh in his ever wearing tolerance for Draco's coldness.

Despite that, however, Draco had to admit, this was one of the best birthdays he had had in a long while, he dare even say `ever' due to how warmly he was welcomed. He could do without the fancy gifts and to skip the dry custom of his youth. Formal parties had a certain cultural lure to them, but he found them tedious, and repetitive. The same old people, talking about the same old things, wearing the same old -but new- expensive cloths to try and impress and out do one another, and the same old shallow complements, and the same old superficial praise…it had all been so wearing, so cold. Draco didn't miss any of that, of all things he had lost.

No Author's Note/Summery for you. Review!

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Fallen Angel

Chapter 08

The second day after the full moon dawned to be a beautiful Tuesday, and Draco, despite how lousy he felt, was up and about in preparation for an excursion with the family out into the still reeling wizarding world where he doubted the day would be as peaceful as the lovely July weather promised.

“We will go to the wand shop first, right?” Clarissa said, having been up since five, already dressed, shoed, fed, and now waiting since five thirty. Draco was not a morning person, and he was not a fast start even on good days, so his leisurely pace was seriously irking her.

“No, first we go to Gringott, to take out some gold to even be able to afford your wand,” Draco said smoothly, having refused to even answer his daughter's frantic nagging until now, seven.

“Right, and from there we go to the wand shop,” she said, daring to not make it a question, but still looking to Draco in hopes he would agree so she could squeal.

“The shops are quite a distance apart, and I'm not exactly the fast-on-my-feet variety of wolf, so we will make our way in that direction in our good time, stopping where we must, allowing this old-pop of yours to rest every block or so,” he said in a very understanding tone, in a very unhurried pace, in a very `that is that' manner.

“Every block?” Clarissa whined.

“I am no spring-pup like you, I don't recover as quickly from the full,” he drawled. Clarissa looked mutinous, but subdued at the same time.

“Are you sure you're up to this though?” Ginny asked, walking into the room, closing her light-weight cloak around her to -quite literally- magically make her bump disappear beneath it.

“You fuss as though I have never managed through a full before,” Draco said, almost laughing in his outrage. “I will be alright, that wasn't even the roughest I have coped through,” he said, raising his hand to be dismissive, knowing he hadn't technically answered her question yet. “I am fine, I am tired and achy and will go slow so as not to tax myself,” he said, glancing over at the anxious to get going Clarissa, “But I will be quite alright,” he assured.

“I am not only talking about that,” she said, dropping her voice.

“Don't be like Granger now,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. “People will stop, they will stare, they will whisper behind their hands…on a normal day. Today it should be no different,” he said in that same `that is that' tone he learned from his mother and used often on his children. Ginny pursed her lips together at that, wanting to argue, but not sure why. Draco was getting out, not shutting himself up and wallowing in his depression…so why wasn't she happy and supporting him one-hundred percent? She was afraid he would get hurt, and it would discourage him from ever being so bold again. She felt there were baby-steps to be had before this, to test the waters. Draco didn't believe in wading in, he believed in jumping, which was probably a reason behind why things tended to either go really well, or really badly for him.

“Don't worry,” Draco said as though Ginny had voiced her thoughts out loud. She rolled her eyes up to be glaring at him, knowing he had snooped. “I'm a little bit tougher than you give me credit for. You seem to understand very little about me if you think I would precariously get my hopes up enough to then be let down, especially over something like this,” he said. “I'm a little more guarded than that,” he assured, Ginny sighing, this maybe not being quite the leap she thought it was for him. Draco raised an arm to allow her to situate herself under it and beside him, then wrapping that arm around her to hold her to his side tightly, giving her arm a reassuring rub.

“Where is Michael,” he asked after a moment, looking around as though expecting him to appear.

“He's in his room, sleeping,” Clarissa answered, frustrated because she had bullied Draco and Ginny into being ready by now, but her brother was still asleep, stubbornly refusing to do more than grunt and roll over while smooshing a pillow over his head to block her out, or make a blind grab from over the side of his bed to toss a shoe at her in annoyance.

“I'll get him, no sense in you running all the way upstairs,” Ginny said, knowing Michelangelo wouldn't wake for his sister either.

“You don't need to be going up all those stairs either,” Draco argued.

“Draco, I'm pregnant, not broken,” she said, sometimes having to remind Draco of that. “I'll be right back.”

Ginny climbed up the stairs at first with no trouble, head high, making it seem easy to spite Draco, but by the time she got to the floor where Michelangelo and Clarissa resided, she was puffing a little.

“Michael,” she called softly through the door, knocking as she opened it with a groan of its hinges. Cleaned up, primed, painted, scraped, and dusted, the house was still an old house, and it still groaned, creaked, and whined like an old house. At night, when all else was quiet, it was actually kind of scary if you paid attention to the sounds.

Stepping in Ginny crossed the dark room, the colors dull in the dimness, the air feeling thick. She reached up to pull the curtains of his bed aside to finally meet something that wasn't dark. Laying face down on his bed, head turned to the side, in nothing but a pair of boxers, Michelangelo slept. His pale ringlets tossed about messily, his fair skin somehow managing to have a soft glow in the dimness. Ginny had never before seen him in such a state of undress. He was skinny, like the rest of his family, but a lot like Draco given how much he had grown recently without much weight gain, leaving his back a bit boney and arms and legs thin. Maybe the whole family just had a natural undernourished look about them. Michelangelo was the one person in the house Ginny never worried about eating, he had an appetite like Ron, he always found an occasion to eat something and a lot of it.

Recovering, though still feeling awkward, she tried to act collected as she leaned in and rested a hand on his shoulder, trying to stir him gently, but distracted immediately. On the back of his neck, laid bare by his upper-body's nakedness and careless hair, there was a tattoo, one nearly identical to Draco's. Draco's was a series of three numbers: 369. Michelangelo had 395 inked into that otherwise flawless skin of his. Ginny stared at it for a long moment before Michelangelo took a deep waking breath snapped her out of it.

“Mmm,” he groaned quietly, stretching some. Ginny seized the opportunity.

“Michael,” she said quietly, Michelangelo waking with a snap of his eyes.

“Bloody-hell,” he gasped, rolling to pull his blanket to cover him, looking flushed in both embarrassment and anger.

“Your father is about ready to leave, we are all just waiting for you,” she tried to explain, thankful the dimness likely hid her blush.

“Haven't you ever heard of knocking?” he snapped.

“I did knock, you were sleeping,” she said calmly, unprovoked.

“That little rapping you do while opening the door and whispering does not count,” he fumed, reaching over the edge of his bed to grab his shirt from the floor and pull it on with much redirected aggression.

“Be ready to go in fifteen minutes,” Ginny said, still not allowing herself to be baited by the boy. It was going to be a long day if they started off at each others' throats.

Draco wrapped himself around Ginny from behind the moment she reappeared, and she reached up and behind herself to scratch at his scalp like he loved.

“I love you,” he whispered into her ear.

“I love you too,” she responded, taking a deep breath at almost the exact same time he did. He smelled like his cologne, which was wonderful, and she smelled like strawberries, like her shampoo.

“A pretty flower for a pretty lady,” he said, producing for her a daisy, held out before her tummy.

“Draco,” she giggled. She didn't wonder where it came from; she was too busy being giddy over Draco's seemingly impeccable sense of romance. A handpicked flower for no special occasion, Draco was truly unique. She looked at it for a moment, and felt his love for her, but still, she was bothered by something, and she knew Draco would feel it.

“I had forgotten all three of you have those tattoos on our necks,” she said as Draco placed his hands on her tummy.

“It is something easily forgotten, and actually preferred,” he said dismissively into her neck.

“Will our child be tattooed?” she asked and Draco seemed to tense for a moment, then breathed heavily into her neck.

“They have not amended the law,” he said.

“So that is a yes?”

She just felt Draco nod against her.

“Oh Merlin,” she said, letting her deep sadness be heard and felt.

“It will be awright,” he assured, rubbing her tummy.

“It's not right,” she said, Draco knowing she would cry if he allowed her to continue on this thought.

“Life is not fair…let's not dwell, not today,” he said, pressing himself against her, forcing her to take a step forward with him which he turned into a side-to-side rocking motion. “We are going to have a good day, we are going to have a family day, we are not going to let anything or anyone get us down,” he said, rocking her to one side and then the other with each straight legged step.

“I think we need to come out about the baby, Draco,” she said and Draco didn't stop in his rocking, though she could sense his reaction without him making a sound. “I know with everything that is breaking about you right now it would only be one more thing, but I agree with what your mother said to me, this is beyond just yours and my desire for privacy. I am not getting any less pregnant, and I am going to have to register this baby with the Beast Department, and see specialized doctors, and this is breaking one way or another, sooner or later, and you said yesterday `why let the dread build?' We can let people know and grow accustomed to the idea so that by the time the baby comes we can greet it with only joy,” she said.

“You think anyone will get accustomed to this?” he argued, his hands grabbing her stomach for emphasis.

“As accustomed as they can get to it in two months time, and it would be easier than having to shield a baby from their cameras when the story breaks for the first time because of the birth, right?”

“I can't say I look forward to letting the whole world know that I got you pregnant,” he said timidly.

“People love babies, even Malfoy babies. Don't worry, there will be a field day over this, and people will only likely be more persistent in getting our pictures, but letting some of the hysteria die down before the baby comes would be what's best for him,”

“Or her,” he argued and Ginny just laughed so that her tummy bounded in Draco's hands.

“We agreed?” she asked.

“It is all up to you,” he said after a long moment. “Do it when you feel comfortable about it, today, next week, a month from now,” he said, almost pleading at the end to pick the later.

“I love you,” she said, tipping her head back onto his shoulder.

“Of course you do,” he said arrogantly, Ginny elbowing him in the stomach, them both laughing and wrestling a little before someone clearing their throat caused them to pause.

“I'm ready,” Michelangelo announced, his arms crossed, standing on the bottom step, not looking pleased with his father's and Ginny's PDA.

Ginny couldn't travel by magical means while so pregnant. Apparition maybe, but that wasn't family friendly, and Portkey and Floo were potentially too violent for a woman in her third trimester, so Draco drove them to the Leaky Cauldron in his car. Michelangelo sat behind Draco, as always, and Clarissa behind Ginny, as was perusal. Clarissa was talking incessantly about what kind of wand she wanted. Willow with Unicorn hair, Ebony with Phoenix tail feather…she wouldn't give it a rest. Michelangelo had Birch with Dragon's Heartstring, so she wanted something completely different.

“What do you have, Ginny?” Clarissa asked.

“Hazel and Phoenix feather,” she answered readily.

“Can I touch it?” she asked.

“No you may not,” Draco cut in, Ginny just smiling out the window, Clarissa pouting.

Michelangelo had his in his pocket, the handle sticking out because of how long his was. Ginny felt Draco should take his wand away for summer like most parents did, or at the very least because Michelangelo was grounded and in so much trouble, but Draco was unrelenting in his stance that it broke the connection a new wand made with its owner to confiscate it for long periods of time. Ginny wasn't sure she agreed with that, not having heard much on the benefits and shortcomings of wand relationships with wizards, but she knew Harry had a dear one with his wand, so she couldn't really argue.

On the Muggle street where they parked, Draco, Ginny, and the kids were just a regular, typical, normal family on an outing in London like any other family would be. Just on the other side of the barrier, however, it would be a different story. Just passing through the Leaky Cauldron got them stares, though no one said anything, no one stopped them. Ginny marveled by how right Draco had been. They were allowed to pass without hassle, for the first time…ever, and it was actually quite wonderful. Wonderful, that is, if she didn't look up at Draco's face. She knew he couldn't help himself, and he was reading everyone he passed, and she knew he wouldn't find much within their thoughts to smile about. His beautiful eyes were shielded by his dark chic sunglasses, but his pout was set in a way that was part style, part irritation. It was the perfect blend that gave him an all around absolute Malfoy appearance.

Ginny rapped the correct bricks for the family to enter Diagon Alley -Michelangelo watching astutely- and immediately they were met with the bustle of the busy street, much talking, owls hooting and swooping overhead, small explosions and loud pops, merchants calling out to potential buyers about their products, and shrill hags able to be overheard more clearly over the murmur. Friends greeted each other, bumps were met with “excuse me” and other polite utterances as people moved about in their business, and the bells and twining snaps of shop doors being opened and closed all gave evidence of just how prosperous the magical community was. In everyone's self-absorbed heist, many overlooked Draco and his family, and it was almost nice to fall into step with the moving crowd and just be a person for a while. Draco could do this on a Muggle street, but it didn't come with a warmness, a sense of acceptance. This was his home, these were his people, these were the sounds he loved. Muggle traffic, whistles, horns, and angry grunts towards each other just could not compete with magic…real, live, warm magic. With the July sun shining down on them, with the smell of freshly cooked wizarding entrées in the small bakeries and eateries bombarding their senses, Draco felt himself relax enough to dare and enjoy himself. Ginny could tell because, despite his face remaining a cool arrogant mask, his hand found hers in a subtle but affectionate way.

“Oh my…Daddy, look at that, you see that? Is he upside down? What is he wearing?”

“Not enough, sweetie, let's move on,” Draco said, quickly placing his hand on the side of his daughter's face to turn her head away, hurrying her past the wizard who was magically strung up by his ankles but clearly not wearing anything under his robes.

A few people along their way recognized Ginny and Draco, and he knew it wouldn't take long for the gossip to spread and their anonymity lost, so he enjoyed this freedom while he still could. He walked with his cane, at the quickest pace he dared, leaving the family to trek rather slowly. Michelangelo looked about, allowing a sort of dignified curiosity to show through. He had only been to Diagon Alley a handful of times himself, so he too was a little dazzled by the displays of magic he saw all about him, but not to the extent of his sister, because he had been to Hogwarts, he had gone to Hogsmeade, he had a wand, he was a wizard.

Clarissa stopped to poke, sniff, and gander at just about everything, so that worked well with Draco's slow pace, but her chiming voice and wild blonde locks were attention grabbing, and she was recognized very readily by every vender she approached.

“You look really pretty today, Clarissa,” a man she didn't even know complemented. Clarissa did not find it odd that the man knew her name, everyone knew her name, like they did her father's, so she just graciously thanked the man and accepted from him his small gift, a blue quill that was a deep purple when tilted in the light, one of the more beautiful ones he sold. She walked with it, raising and lowering her arm to allow the feather to lift and glide in the light wind while pinched so delicately in her fingertips. Draco gave the man a nod as he passed, to attempt to be friendly and to show his gratitude, but the man did little in response but eye him mistrustfully. Draco did not know the man, and though he had extended kindness towards his beautiful daughter, he would not do the same to him, and that made Draco sigh a little, wishing he could be as infectiously endearing as Clarissa sometimes. She was in a yellow sundress that reached her knees and left her freckled shoulders bare. She wore white leather sandals and a white headband to keep her wild hair out of her eyes. She looked like a lemon drop, or a spot of sunshine. Her smile was so bright; her eyes practically squinting in her delight, Draco couldn't help himself as his hand snuck a grasp at Ginny's hidden tummy, wishing beyond any hope that he had managed a little girl with her. Would she have Ginny's red hair? His pale blond had won out against his other children's mother's red hair. Ginny had brown eyes, would he have a brown-eyed daughter? Would she have freckles? Would she have Ginny's nose, or her smile? Would she have his chin and ears and laugh?

Ginny placed her hand on top of Draco's. She wanted a boy, and he could understand that, boys were charming -he was evidence enough of that- but how could anyone not love a little baby girl? The frills and bows were to die for, not that Draco would ever admit to that.

“Enter, stranger, but take heed…Of what awaits the sin of greed…For those who take, but do not earn…Must pay most dearly in their turn. So if you seek beneath our floors…A treasure that was never yours…Thief, you have been warned, beware…Of finding more than treasure there,” Clarissa read upon skipping up the stairs of Gringott before the rest of them, to read the inscription upon the great doors.

“Too bad that didn't apply to the Ministry stealing me blind,” Draco grumbled, Ginny nudging him with a playful “shh” due to them having already agreed to not dwell on anything negative that day.

“Father, I hear there are dragons kept within, to guard some of the more secure vaults. Is that true?” Michelangelo asked Draco, curious but speaking curtly, like Draco once did with his own father, others sure to overhear and, like Michelangelo, wanting to project an air of sophistication.

“Our family vault,” he said, saying “our” to include Michelangelo as a Malfoy, “was guarded by a nasty Welsh Green named Craven,” he said and Michelangelo, despite himself, allowed a bit of his astonishment and excitement to surface, Clarissa not bothering to hide it at all.

“Will we be seeing a dragon today, Daddy?” she asked, looking so twinkle-eyed that she looked dazed.

“The black family vault was stripped of its high-priority status years ago, so unless we see one on the way, no,” he said and Clarissa looked a little disappointed, but Draco pointed out to her the Goblin that had just emerged and she was instantly enthralled by it as something new. Ginny laughed softly because Clarissa acted like a Muggleborn, so unaccustomed to magical ways it was humorous. She was a pureblood, but you never would have guessed it by the way she behaved. Draco seemed to be able to find some humor in the irony at least as he followed his animated daughter in.

“Welcome to Gringott, Mr. Malfoy,” the head Goblin greeted, Clarissa spinning around with her arms out in the center of the long tall hall as though to take into her all that the building contained. She looked up at the cobweb-encased chandeliers, she looked around at the busy Goblins weighing and inspecting gold and gems and other valuables, she twirled so her skirt and hair flared out and she was at risk of simply toppling over. A giggle escaped her which echoed around the cavernous hall and caused quite a few of the cantankerous Goblins to stop in their dealings to leer at her.

“Thank you. I wish to make a withdrawal today,” he said curtly, not particularly liking Goblins, them not particularly liking him. He had a small hoard of Goblin gold in his vault thanks to his little January adventures, and the Goblins were not glad to see such a fortune unearthed and claimed by a man. They would have that gold back, one way or another in the end, and Draco was more than willing to exchange the gold for its worth in wizarding coin, but they did not want to pay for their own gold.

“Have you your key?” he asked and Draco nodded, presenting a small key from around his neck that he had strung on a delicate but magically reinforced gold chain, to keep it safe.

“Klarp will take you, though I would suggest leaving the children,” he said and Clarissa and Michelangelo both instantly turned at that and made their outrage and objection known.

“What?” Clarissa asked.

“No way,” Michelangelo snapped.

“They are coming along with me, this is a family trip,” Draco said coolly.

“Very well,” the Goblin said crisply, his pointed teeth impeding his ability to speak only slightly, a sharp inward hiss heard at the end as he sucked up the saliva he would otherwise drool from his wide narrow-lipped mouth.

“Is it safe?” Clarissa asked timidly a handful of moments later as she stood before one of the rail-carts, Draco helping Ginny in with care, Michelangelo hopping in without fear, the goblin Klarp already situated to drive.

“No one has died in years,” the Goblin hissed, only causing the last bit of color to drain out of Clarissa's face. Draco gave the Goblin a stern look and held his hand out to his daughter while she stood on the platform still, him in the cart.

“I will hold you tight,” he promised, Clarissa not doubting her father but still clearly weary. Ginny was pregnant but making the trip, because the trolleys really were rather safe, protected by all sorts of wards. Having one's clientele falling to their deaths or suffering injury was not good business, and Goblins knew business.

“Come on, stop being a baby,” Michelangelo complained and Clarissa instantly huffed, her hair even seaming to puff like an irritated bird, or cat.

“I am no baby,” she snapped.

“Then get in the car,” he challenged and Clarissa looked divided, but swung her foot into the car with a look of `I'll show you' determination and plopped herself down before her father, so he could hold her between his legs. Ginny was to Draco's left side where she linked arms with him, and Michelangelo was in front of her, anticipating the rush of sitting in the front of the insane ride.

“Does this go FAAAST!” Clarissa attempted to ask but then just ended up screaming as the car shot off like a rocket and dropped almost immediately like a rollercoaster. Michelangelo was laughing, raising his arms here or there, Ginny was holding onto Draco's arm tight as he kept one hand on her, another on his daughter who was gripping his left leg for dear life. It was his good leg, and that was only by luck that she had grabbed that one, and he was grateful because he would have been screaming too if that weren't the case.

“Vault 248,” the goblin announced upon reaching a screeching and jarring halt. Clarissa's hair, if possible, was more of a wild mess than ever before, and she was a little white-lipped and wide-eyed.

“That was so awesome, I'm driving back,” Michelangelo laughed as he hopped down after having stepped up onto the edge of the cart. Ginny was going to stay seated, no need for everyone to get out for Draco to gather up some gold, but Clarissa seemed to be an obstacle in this.

“You alright, darling?” Draco asked, Ginny assuring him she would take care of it as she leaned forward to pry the girl off and allow Draco to stand. She scooted over so she was where he had been sitting to allow Clarissa to continue to cling, just stroking the back of the little girl's head, smoothing down her fly away hair.

“I don't think Clarissa is much of a flier,” Michelangelo smirked as he looked back towards his traumatized sister as Draco passed.

“I recall you screaming like a banshee our first trip down here, Michael, so if I hear one word from you in teasing her I will recap the tale to her and Ginny without sympathy,” he warned, Michelangelo pouting some. Michelangelo was like him in so many ways, including being chicken-shit.

The Goblin -who was waiting already- opened the door and allowed Draco to take out a pre-agreed-upon amount of gold and silver coins.

The cart ride back was much longer it seemed, but nearly a half an hour after entering Gringott they were all leaving, stepping out into the bright sun of Diagon Alley.

“Awright, Clarissa's head will start spinning around soon if I don't take her to the wand shop first,” Draco said, Clarissa jumping up and down in place, “So why don't we split up, she and I will hit Ollivander's first, and you two can -stick together,” he said, looking right at his son sternly, “and see Diagon Alley, and the shops for a bit. We can meet for lunch at the Grub-tub at, oh, eleven?” he asked and Clarissa readily agreed, already pulling at her father's hand.

“Sounds good,” Ginny said, giving Draco a puckering smack on the lips with her own before pulling back to look over at Michelangelo, him never pleased to see affection shared between his father and Ginny.

“Be good,” Draco warned, looking at Ginny but clearly talking to Michelangelo as he allowed himself to be pulled backwards by a grunting and tugging Clarissa.

“Come on, all the best ones will be gone by the time you get done with all your smooches,” she said as she pulled with her might, Draco disinclined to be very corporative just to cause her a little grief.

“The wand picks you, dear. The one best suited for you has been waiting years for you to come, it will still be there for you no matter how slow I trot,” he assured, limping along at his own dandy pace.

“The next Minister will be in office by the time you get there at this rate,” she complained, Draco just laughing a little, ignoring the looks he got. Yes, that terrible article had been printed about him only two days ago, and yes he was out and about in public, laughing. If people had a problem with that, they simply did not have enough problems of their own.

The jingling of the door's bell disrupted the silence of the shop, the contrast from the lively street immense. People could still be heard through the glass, but it took a moment for the muffling to become audible, the silence swallowing them up at first.

“Hello?” Clarissa called, little girlish voice irresistible, from what she had been lead to believe. She expected someone to come to her beckoning within the instant, but when there was nothing but silence she looked at her father as though expecting him to fix this and he just smiled and shrugged, leading her to try again. “Hello?” she asked, stepping forward a little to gasp when Ollivander, the man himself, appeared from between the shelves where he had been obviously wandering from.

“Ah, another Malfoy,” he said with a smile.

“Hello, Ollivander,” Draco greeted warmly, or as warmly as he ever allowed himself to be while out in public, with people he barley knew but for their time spent in the war.

“Draco, my-boy, here to replace that wand of yours finally?” he asked, overlooking Clarissa which caused her to get pink in the face with indignation as she placed her hands on her narrow waist.

“No, no,” he said bashfully.

“Hawthorn and unicorn hair, 10 inches, reasonably springy…I could make you another, probably near the same, it is what worked best for you obviously, though the core is really what's most important, it is what chooses its master,” he said and Draco was just shaking his head.

“Tempting, but I am not here today for a wand for myself, but for my daughter. She will be starting her first year at Hogwarts come this autumn and has demanded that she get a wand as soon as possible,” Draco explained, stepping up to his daughter to place his hands on her shoulders.

“Oh-yes, I have heard a great deal about you, little Clarissa, and seen you too, always playing for the cameras,” he said, almost like he was tisking her.

“I really want a wand, please,” she said, batting her eyes, placing the tip of her toe on the ground and turning her knee in and folding her hands before her with locked elbows in a coy shyness that reeked of femininity and flattery, while asking so sweetly. Draco couldn't be prouder, Ollivander couldn't be less impressed.

“Flirty ways are charming now, little Clarissa, but they can lead to trouble. I would hate for you to bat your eyes at the wrong man someday,” he said, fetching a box from the many that lined the dusty walls. Clarissa looked a little perplexed and glanced up at her father, but Draco just gave her an encouraging push forward so as to take the wand Ollivander would be offering her as he himself took a much needed seat in a little wooden chair near the corner. He hadn't let it show on his face while Clarissa had been looking, but as he removed his sunglasses he panted slightly, exhausted already.

“Maple would complement your sweet personality, and fairy hair would add that little extra bite I detect in you,” he said, leaning in to offer Clarissa the first wand. She looked at it, almost like she couldn't believe her eyes that she was being presented with a wand, and hesitantly grasped it in her right hand, looking at it the whole time she drew it out of Ollivander's grasp slowly.

“Right handed, as I assumed, unlike your father, however,” he said and Draco smiled, remembering how sternly his father had reprimanded him for reaching for his first wand with the “wrong hand” and Ollivander daring to speak against his father, saying it was crucial for a wizard to hold his wand with the proper, natural hand, whether it be right, or left.

Clarissa looked over at her father, then at the wand, and Draco nudged her a little with his foot, the only thing that could reach her at that point.

“A little wave should do it,” he said, Clarissa nodding, and flicking, and jumping upon a scream erupting from the tip on the wand as steam burst forth like it was a kettle of water boiling.

“Oh dear, I think I misjudged the length greatly,” Ollivander sighed, flicking his own wand while removing the one from Clarissa, a tape measure appearing in the air to wrap itself about Clarissa in many ways, taking measurements of the oddest things, it all somehow amounting to some greater meaning that was beyond her, or even Draco, as Ollivander just held his own chin and nodded.

“A shorter wand, like your father I think. So many get caught up in length these days, it is such a shame. If it is less than fifteen they cry out for a second opinion. Short wands are condensed, oftentimes more powerful -all depending on the core and witch or wizard of course- and easier to carry,” Ollivander explained, or possibly ranted, as he fetched another wand. Clarissa looked over at her father again with frowning brows of uncertainty and Draco just gave her a smile, the tape measure taking record of how wide her toenails were at this point and tying bows around her ankles.

“Here we are, how about a nice firm Ash with a spark of Dragon's Heartstring, a favorite core of mine,” he said, Clarissa looking at it but taking it more readily this time. She gave it a swish without encouragement this go, but poor Ollivander had not retreated out of the way yet and got knocked backwards into the shelves.

Clarissa quickly bent at the knees to abandon the wand down at her feet and shot up to look the other way as though playing it off like she wasn't the culprit.

The wand fitting went on much this way for nearly half an hour.

“My dear girl, I have rarely met a child as impossible as you,” he said, not angered, but intrigued by the challenge. “I think I am thinking too much, yes, yes. Why don't we…I can't imagine why I didn't try this one first…we will go with the most obvious choice, yes. If I am wrong I will eat the wand when I'm done,” he said, fetching a wand from up high, climbing a ladder that seemed far too steep for the ancient one to manage but Draco having witnessed the late Coderdale scaling ladders at least three times that height without complaint.

Ollivander returned, presenting Clarissa with what he apparently believed to be the final wand. Clarissa, rightfully weary at this point, took the wand, but did not flick it, just looked at it as she felt it grow warm in her hand. The wood seemed to vibrate and quiver, and a low-tone ringing filled the room, or maybe just her own ears.

“We have a winner?” Draco asked, noticing his daughter's transfixed eyes as he stood slowly with much assistance from his cane.

“Oh yes, perfect fit. Ten inches, just like yours, but Elder wood, as is often seen in winter babies. The core is what surprised me. I thought it, but hadn't dared try it. I relearn this lesson to follow my gut feeling every summer with new students gathering their wands for school. Glad I got it out of the way early this year, with minimal damage to my shop,” he said as Clarissa seemed to break away from her dazed state to look up at Ollivander.

“What is in my wand?” she asked, voice a little lost, like she was without breath to speak.

“A rare phoenix feather, you can hear his song, can't you?” he asked and Clarissa nodded. “A handsome one as I recall, one that I met out in Greece over a lifetime ago. This wand is one of my personal firsts. I never thought I would sell it, it never reacted well to any witch or wizard I offered it to, so I had since stopped offering it,” he said, Draco looking at the wand.

“It isn't…dangerous, is it?” he asked, not sure he liked the tale behind the wand all that much.

“It is simply a difficult wand to tame. Should you try to use it, it would buck you, as though it were a horse. She is lucky it chose her really, ever stripped of her wand it is unlikely it can be used against her, though it would be a difficult wand to replace, and I'm sure things like transfiguration will come easy while charms will be more difficult with this wand's stiffness and force,” he explained, Clarissa practically beaming.

“I have a powerful wand?” she asked.

“A wand is synced with its master, young lady. A truly powerful wand can only be wielded by a truly powerful witch, otherwise it would be the wand who is the master, and you can imagine the trouble that would ensue,” he said, leaning in slightly.

“Michael is going to be greener than a swamp frog with envy when he hears this!” Clarissa squealed, spinning in place, pink sparkles erupting out her wand to twirl around her in her glee.

Draco stepped forward to deal with the matter of paying for this wand, talking in a low voice to the man.

“Both my children ended up with some sort of ominous or potent wand, with tales of their cores and promise of their potential so great but wicked that it has me at unease and them beside themselves with pride…why is that?” he asked, opening up his money purse.

“The wand chooses the wizard…”

“Yeah, yeah, cut the horseshit, how much is this one going to cost me?” Draco drawled.

“It is twenty Galleons,” he said curtly, Draco pursing his lips together, once again paying an extravagant amount for a wand for his child. “Might I tempt to you with a wave or two, Mr. Malfoy? Surely there is a wand in here that will tickle you the right way,” Ollivander pressed, feeling slightly insulted that Draco would subtly accuse him of being a con-artist, wishing he could get Draco to understand what a complex and vague art that was wand making, and how certain he was that Clarissa had the best wand suited for her.

Draco actually did know how Ollivander felt, but didn't reveal such, just counting out his coins, trying his best to not be lured by a test, knowing it would only take one good flick to have him sold, and he didn't want to reward the man for his vender ways.

---------------

Ginny and Michelangelo walked along the cobble street together, moving between groups of people, stopping here or there to look at things, but with no real sense of purpose, they had no real destination.

“We can check out Quality Quidditch Supplies,” Ginny offered.

“Why, I'm not getting a broom,” Michelangelo moped, that being part of his punishment. He was in trouble, so he didn't get a brand new broom for his second year. All hopes of him making the house team were crushed in his mind because he knew he couldn't impress anyone on one of the school rentals, and everyone on the team needed their own boom, school ones were only ever used as temporary substitutes if at all.

“That never stopped you from looking before this year,” Ginny pressed, remembering how transfixed he had been by the brooms last time she had brought him here but he had no hope of actually getting one.

“I rather not gander longingly at things I can't have, thank you,” Michelangelo said curtly, walking a little faster to be a step or two away from Ginny so she was behind him.

“Well I want to stop here,” she said, looking up at the sign, Michelangelo doing the same.

“Why?”

“Because, babies demand furniture,” she said, not having a crib yet for her child. There was one that belonged to the Blacks, but it looked about as likely to eat her baby as it was to keep it safe, so she was always on the lookout for one she fancied. It was easy to shop unnoticed, however, and to talk of babies openly, because of Hermione's widely publicized pregnancy. Everyone assumed she was shopping for her best friend, and no one suspected. Yet. The Daily Prophet's headquarters was in Diagon Alley, Ginny and Michelangelo had just passed it, so she knew the tabloid writers and photographers would be on their tail in a matter of moments, surely the news having reached them by now that Draco Malfoy had brought his family amongst them.

“Whatever, I will be next-door. I don't want to look at frilly little baby knickknacks and hear you coo over every other thing,” he drawled, not waiting for Ginny's okay over this, just turning to roll into the bookshop without another parting word. Ginny huffed, but decided to duck inside before someone got a picture of her scowling, or at the very least saw it and help spread some kind of rumor. She knew people were watching her and Michelangelo -paparazzi or not- everyone observing their interactions closely. She did not want to give anyone ammunition to help carry the story that there was much animosity between her and Michelangelo still. What made that nasty rumor so bad was that it was true.

Ginny stepped inside with a sigh, a frustrated sigh as she attempted to not pull at her hair. Michelangelo had known she wouldn't fight with him on the street, wouldn't have made a scene and gone after him, so he had been bold and insubordinate. Sometimes he seemed alright, other times he was a downright nightmare. He was kind'a like Draco in that respect.

“Welcome to Fancy Furnishings, how may I…oh my, hello Ms. Weasley,” the shop keeper welcomed, making a sweeping bow when she realized who had just entered.

“Uh, hello,” Ginny said, never accustomed to the sort of reactions she enticed out of people. This woman, tall and thin, straightened to look at Ginny with anticipation and possibly a little admiration. “I was looking for baby…”

“Right this way!” the woman said, scooping Ginny around the middle with her arm and sweeping her across the shop, instantly pitching every item imaginable to her, everything from magic self-changing tables, to cribs that rocked themselves, to highchairs that burped the baby.

“I was just kind of thinking of something basic, and classic, and there is no knowing the sex of the baby yet,” she said and the shop keeper, determined to make a sale, did not fight Ginny on her wishes, moving from the elaborate (expensive) furnishings to the more standard line and variety.

“Of course,” the woman said, showing Ginny all the varieties they carried. “Our line of baby furniture is the most extensive of any localized business, you can check anywhere. You can't beat our selection, our quality, or our prices,” she pressed, smile wide, hands sliding over the wood of a crib as though to showcase its quality.

“It's all quite nice, I just…I don't know what will be liked…it's hard to shop for someone else,” Ginny said tactfully, still maintaining that she was shopping for Harry and Hermione, not admitting that she was really talking about Draco. She knew he was very particular, and she didn't want to invest in something he would hate.

“Well, if it helps any, Mr. Potter and lovely Ms. Granger have been coming in; I can tell you what they already have so you can reduce your options, make things easier,” she offered, not about to lose her sale due to Ginny's uncertainty.

Ginny was pulling at the collar of her robes. She was so hot. She was finding it more and more difficult to not roast the further into summer they got, and the more pregnant she became. Going out into public was becoming less and less frequent for her, for the layers she had to wear to conceal her secret were threatening to make her faint. Work was a nightmare given how stifling the Ministry got sometimes.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked.

“I am just a bit warm,” Ginny said, fanning herself.

“Well, I should think so, it is much too warm for robes, even of that weight,” the woman laughed and Ginny glanced over towards the front-facing windows where she could see the paparazzi had finally found her. They couldn't enter businesses, so they stayed out on the street, poking their cameras in to snap their pictures. Surely they were mentally drafting stories to go along with this series, something along the lines of “Draco and Ginny's relationship falling apart, Ginny does some retail-therapy to deal with the stress…” or “Ex-Mrs. Potter heartbroken over first love moving on with her best friend! Now she shops for the child she will never have…”

Ginny shook her head. She had seen similar stories written already. Surely they would come up with something new…something headline catching so that they could compete with the full moon article that was still looming heavily over them all.

Ginny had an idea as to how she could compete with that article.

“You know, you're right. It is much too hot for these robes,” she said, the woman smiling at her, her eyes then widening, however, when Ginny pulled the robes open to not reveal some cute summer wardrobe. Ginny slipped her robes down her arms to reveal her pregnant self, in all her pregnant glory, and she could actually see the flashbulbs go off on her right through her closed eyelids.

“There, she said with a refreshed breath, folding the robed up and draping them over her left arm. “Much batter,” she said, the shop keeper staring, the flashbulbs exploding outside, Ginny just smiling as though oblivious to it all.

The shop keeper, wanting her sale, swallowed hard and cleared her throat and said nothing on Ginny's figure and just pressed on, talking about cribs.

“This one is classic, white and tasteful, perfect for a couple that doesn't know the sex of their baby yet,” she said, eyes falling on Ginny's stomach every once in a while as she spoke.

“I don't know, Draco wants to do the whole nursery white, and I fear that if I got a white crib he would have too much of a toe in the door with that idea. I wanted to keep things bright, but with primary colors, you know?” she said, placing her hand on her belly and getting the predicted response of more flashes.

“Well, a finished wood, like this oak, would be a nice centerpiece in a room of any color, and it not being white, it would not help him persuade you to go all white…if that is what you desire,” she said, wringing her hands together.

“I really think I should drag Draco in here for this. He will want everything to be white and frilly, but maybe you can talk some sense into him,” Ginny laughed, the woman looking a little wide-eyed at the prospect of having the werewolf in her establishment. “I think I will do that, yes,” Ginny said, obviously making up her mind, turning to allow herself to be walked out. She paused at the front door with the woman, who seemed reluctant to release Ginny out into the sea of paparazzi that awaited just on the other side of the glass. “I'll be back,” Ginny assured, as though to quell some of the woman's worries.

“You take care,” she said, taking a step back. Ginny just squared her shoulders, threw her hair over them, and held her chin up as she exited the shop, the noise outside considerable.

“Ginny! Ginny!” they all shouted and Ginny, despite everything, had to smile, had to laugh at this. She was just imagining the reactions people would have, she was imagining the frantic thoughts of all the wizards about her, taking her picture, and she just couldn't not laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. She had to try and remember why people were so obsessed with her in the first place. She helped fight in a war, as many had, so she got a medal or two. She married and then divorced her childhood sweetheart who happened to be the `greatest hero of all time' and now she was dating a man that had a bad rep and was a werewolf. Somehow all this constituted a growing obsession with her? It was the epitome of ridiculous to her.

“Ginny! Why have you not revealed until now that you are pregnant?!” one man shouted, them all moving as a cluster as she walked. They were like a moving wall always four feet ahead of her. It actually meant she didn't have to fight her way through the crowd, she just had to step in a direction and the paparazzi would plow a path for her.

Ginny just smiled bashfully, Michelangelo stepping out to observe the most recent disruption, and seemed less than thrilled to discover its source.

“Decided today would be the day?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“It was decided upon…sort of,” Ginny said, having talked to Draco about it already.

“Couldn't you have picked a day I wasn't out with you? I don't really feel I deserve this, no matter what I may have done,” he grumbled and Ginny just scooped him around the middle with her arm to walk with him, him stubbornly being led along. He was almost as tall as her shoulder now. He looked just like Draco when he was that age, but certainly taller. It was already understood that Michelangelo would surpass Draco in height, and likely pretty soon if Michelangelo's recent growth-spurt was any indication.

“It is a family announcement,” she teased, so many pictures being taken. Michelangelo didn't look thrilled.

“Ginny! Ginny!” they all shouted, trying to get her to look this way, or that way, which she refused. “Who's the father?” one man dared to blurt out and Ginny finally did look, with a look of utter insult. Michelangelo looked quite outraged himself.

“How dare you…get out of here,” Michelangelo snapped, waving his hand at the camera, even kicking in the direction of the man. Ginny was not looking pleased, but in a downtrodden sort of way. She hadn't anticipated them picking up that angle so soon. She was sure just the shock alone would dominate the headlines for at least a day. It was understandable, however, no matter how insulting, that people would question the paternity of her baby. Even Draco had doubted it at first too, because she had been dating another man at the time of conception. Even if they had kept the baby a secret up until birth, even if she had delivered a carbon-copy of Draco, people's first reaction would still have been to doubt he was the father, simply for the sake of the headlines it would make.

Michelangelo was protective of Ginny, but only in a means that was an extension of how shielding he was of his father. That didn't stop Ginny from holding out some hope that cases like this would help win the boy over some, to create an opportunity for him to relent in his stubborn refusal to be accepting of her without having to admit he had been wrong.

She knew it was just wishful thinking on her part at this point and she just needed to give him time, and space, but it was what helped her get through situations like these, as so many people stopped to stare at her, as so many pictures were taken of her, as so many people shouted at her.

------------------

“Are we going to met for lunch now?” Clarissa asked, the bounce in her step so great she was practically skipping along side him.

“We have some time still,” he said smoothly, his daughter's energy in great contrast to how reserved he carried himself. He had his slick black clothes, his cane that was styled much like the one his father once carried only his has a silver dragon twining around the polished black wood to act as the handle, and his sunglasses in place. He sort of looked like his father's second coming -only a little less dated, and very thin- and Draco prided himself in that, even if the tabloids labeled it as a bad thing. He didn't care what they said, so long as they didn't claim that he had a receding hairline. Someone was getting caned if they did that again.

“Can we look at the owls?” she asked and Draco shook his head.

“Oh no, you will want another animal and I will not have it. I just got the house to stop reeking like animals and their excrement, I am not about to foul it up again,” he said.

“But I need an animal for school,” Clarissa whined.

“I didn't get Michael a pet and he managed through his school year just fine,” Draco said in his `that is that' tone. Michelangelo had use of Frank, the owl Draco had bought and his children had named. He had a feeling a second owl would be required now that Clarissa would be attending, Michelangelo sort of unofficially adopting Frank as his own personal owl. Draco would be able to use Ginny's for personal use he supposed, but still, he hadn't planned on coming to Diagon Alley and leaving with half the supplies Clarissa would need for school. They got her her wand, that was all she would be getting that day, no matter how she begged.

“How about we stop in here,” Draco said, looking up at the library that was erected in the center of things, not far but on the opposite side of the street from Gringott, crammed into that tall narrow space between the existing businesses.

“The library? Why?” she asked as thought the very idea was repugnant.

“Your father likes books, he is tired and would have a good sit, and the paparazzi are out in force,” he said, already scaling the few steps. Clarissa followed obediently but with much griping. She wanted to be outside in the sunlight, not in a `dark cave full of dusty smelly old books'. Draco had another reason for going inside, however. He had heard there was an opening here for employment, and while he knew he wouldn't get any job he applied for, he would have no sense of accomplishment if he didn't at least try whenever possible. It was something to report back to Ginny about and keep her spirits high. As much as her delusional optimism annoyed him, he wouldn't have it any other way, it mildly infectious and actually really beneficial for him. Not that he would admit it.

Inside was cool, dark, and quiet. Draco liked it instantly. The ceiling was high, the room round, and all around were shelves and shelves of books built into the walls so that they were surrounded as though in a giant cylinder of reading. There were three floors, railings encircling each as they rose upward. All around them were tables with dim lamps for personal reading and research, and directly ahead of them, on each floor, was a corridor that clearly led to the rest of the library. Beside the archway on the second floor was a large portrait of Dumbledore himself, the namesake of the library.

“Who is that?” Clarissa asked, looking up at the bearded old man with curiosity.

“A nobody,” Draco said curtly, the picture responding simply by raising one white eyebrow as Draco and Clarissa passed under him.

Draco was cool and collected on the outside, on the inside, however, he was nervous. He knew, beyond a doubt, he wouldn't get the job, so why was he anxious? He didn't have his hope up high enough to let anticipation do this to him. Maybe he was just fearing, dreading, the rejection. No matter how often it happened, or how expected it was, one never really gets used to cold pitiless dismissal. Ironic a Malfoy would fear something they were known for dishing out. Malfoys past would be ashamed.

Draco walked a ways, looking for the offices, figuring they were somewhere along the back where the library expanded out some. Clarissa seemed bored, but looked around inquisitively, as though hoping something exciting would happen. Draco came upon the offices like he had expected to, and turned to Clarissa, crouching down to be more level with her despite the pain it caused him.

“Alright, sweet-pea, I need to run in that office there and talk to the head historian, alright? I doubt this will take more than a matter of minutes, but I cannot stress enough that I want you to wait right here. Do not wander off, understood?” he said, looking right in her eyes to drive the point home, expecting her full compliance in this.

“Yes,” she said with a nod.

“That's my girl,” he said with a kiss to her forehead before leaning liberally on his cane to stand. He knocked twice using the head of his cane and waited to be offered entrance. When “enter” drifted out to meet him he looked back at Clarissa for a moment for a burst of confidence before letting himself in and closing the door quickly.

Inside the office was small, dark, and cramped. Draco looked around, there being only one source of light causing deep shadows to form in the orange glow of the old fashioned gas lamp. There was a man at the desk, writing furiously with a quill, the scratching on the parchment loud in the otherwise nearly silent room. The only other sound to compete was the sound of an old clock ticking slowly in the background.

“Excuse me,” Draco said softly, having expected the man to have abandoned his work upon hearing a knock at the door and inviting the person in, but it was like he had just answered without looking up, with no intention of making introductions.

“I assume you are the one that owled ahead about the job?” he asked, still not having looked up.

“I did. I filled out the application that was sent to me, I have it here,” he said.

“It didn't occur to you to just owl it back?” the man asked, still scratching away.

“It said on the application to deliver it in person,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling it out, unfolding it slowly.

“No one delivers them anymore, that application is old.”

“This library is relatively new,” Draco said in bewilderment.

“It's a standard application, and it is out of date, and I haven't the time to deal with you,” the man said, finally looking up at Draco, instantly surprised by who it was before him. He pushed his glasses down some to look at Draco and Draco did not react at all, remaining still while awaiting the response the man would have.

“Well, well, well, Mr. Malfoy,” he said with amusement. “What would have you applying here for a job?” he asked.

“The need of a job. I heard there was an opening, and I felt I could fill the position well,” he said, as though this were part of the interview, keeping his answers direct, voice sophisticated but not curt, not heavily at least. There was a certain curtness about him that he had never been able to drop.

“Being a lowly librarian is not something below you?” the man asked, challenging.

“I worked for the Ministry of Magic for three years, in their Hall of Records, so I am more than capable of shelving, tending, and repairing the books here,” Draco said, not exactly answering the man's question. Not directly at least.

“I see,” the man said, taking the application Draco was offering, not looking at it, only Draco. Draco looked at his own application, and the man, and back at the application. “We will contact you, upon reviewing your application,” the man said, Draco looking right at his face and his expression finally falling.

“Oh, right, I get it,” he said with a sigh, knowing exactly what the man was telling him: he was to leave, and he wasn't going to even be considered. He expected that, but he had allowed some part of him to stupidly hope for things to not be as they were, because he had actually wanted this job. Silly of him, he was a fool. He was a Malfoy, a Death Eater, and a werewolf. There was no way he was going to have a legitimate job; he didn't even know why he still tried.

Draco let himself out, the man already dropping the application in the rubbish bin while Draco's back was turned but not even out of the room yet. Draco stepped out with pursed lips and brushed under his eyes once fiercely before Clarissa came into view.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling down at her like nothing in that other room had even happened. “What was that about you wanting to look at the owls?” he said, able to draw happiness out of the excitement on Clarissa's face. The way it lit up, it would be all he could hope to accomplish that day.

------------------

Back in that room, with that man, another joined him from a smaller, almost half-hidden door, arms laden with books, sounding a touch winded when he spoke.

“Who was that?” he asked, his Scottish accent somehow making him seem more curious.

“Just a failed applicant. Have those texts I asked for?”

“Yes,” he grunted as he heaved them onto the desk. “Failed? Failed how? How do you expect to ever fill the position if you refuse the only person to answer our need for a secretary?” he asked, reaching for the rubbish bin and beating the older man to it who had attempted to snatch the application out of reach first. He was no match for the younger man's fast reflexes. “I see here this applicant worked for the Ministry, Hall of Records, that's excellent. And he got Outstanding on his Owls for History of Magic…never completed school though…you can't reject him for that…I can't see why you wouldn't con…” he said, trailing off to see the name at the top of the form.

“We don't need his kind here.”

“You can't honestly be that narrow-minded…”

“People won't come here if he's here,” the man argued, voice raised because he was the authority there, feeling he shouldn't have to explain himself.

“You can't reject him based off who or what he is, that is discrimination,” he argued right back.

“I'm not, he didn't complete school, he is not a fully qualified wizard, I am not going to hire someone so limited.”

“He is not limited, he is likely to be the best we will have answer, and I am going to go contact him,” the man said, turning to leave the room.

“You can't hire him, you do not have the authority! I am the one that writes the paychecks around here, I am the one…”

“Who will apologize to him,” the other man responded harshly. “Just because your son is a werewolf doesn't mean you can hate and blame every other werewolf you come across for that. Draco has never hurt anyone,” he said, leaving through the door Draco had used.

He ran down the corridor, out the hall, and down the stairs, looking right and left in hopes of seeing Draco. He wagered to go left and headed off in that direction in a near sprint, hoping he was correct or he would be putting quite a distance between himself and Draco very quickly. Eventually, through the interweaving crowd, white hair caught his eye, and he called out to him.

“Draco!” he called, holding his arm up in hopes of Draco seeing him should he turn. Draco did not. “Draco,” he called again, Draco's shoulders only hunching slightly as he kept walking.

The man finally caught up with him, now panting slightly (more from the dodging than the running) and grabbed Draco from behind by the shoulder. “What is so hard about answering me?” he panted, Draco turning defensively upon being touched, pushing Clarissa to be behind him, but surprised to see it was no photographer or bully on his tail, but Oliver Wood.

“I'm sorry, I do not respond to people calling my name out on the street, it is nearly always just someone looking for trouble,” he said, looking over at Wood awkwardly, not sure what the man wanted of him that he would run down the street chasing after him. Sure they had vaguely known each other from Hogwarts, enough to recognize each other obviously, but he was understandably weary. The last time he had seen this man, he had been fighting with the Order, and Draco was a Death Eater. He had had Oliver at wand-point but not acted. He had hissed at Oliver to fly and not say a word, not because he had been working for the Order too at the time, no, it was because he had been a Death Eater who was utterly useless at killing people. There had been no one there who would be around to call him on letting Oliver go.

Apparently Wood had never forgotten that.

“Well, I came after you to congratulate you,” Oliver said, panting less now, straightening to hold his hand out to Draco as though to shake but Draco not reciprocating.

“For what?” he asked skeptically.

“About you getting the job,” he said and Draco looked at him in surprise at first, then mistrust. Clarissa was peeking around her father hesitantly, silent and unobtrusive in hopes of being overlooked. “Oh, don't look at me like that, come here,” Oliver said to Draco, shaking his hand in the air a little to get Draco to acknowledge it and accept it.

“I don't understand, that old coot tossed my application, he would not have me,” Draco said, allowing his arm to be shaken as people passed them close by.

“Mr. Crudelis is, well, a difficult man, but an awesome taskmaster, and smart employer, when he can pull his head out of those dusty volumes long enough to get a breath of fresh air to think,” he said, releasing Draco. “His son is, uh…he has your same condition, and so he can be rather harsh…”

“Crudelis? I don't know the name.”

“He disowned his son, so his son took his mother's name, Terrus.”

“Tweak?” Draco asked, Oliver looking at him. “I know who you mean. He is known as Tweak down at the pen because he is a little guy with a twitch. Nice chap, bitter as all hell though,” he said and Oliver nodded. “I don't understand, you work for Mr. Crudelis then?” Draco asked, not exactly knowing Oliver that well from Hogwarts but sure the boy would have made a career out of playing Quidditch or coaching, or something. A librarian? Somehow that fell short of his expectations. Oliver seemed unabashed, however.

“Yeah, long story. Listen, how soon can you start? The sooner the better because with only me and one other chap working, things have gotten seriously backed up and disorderly. The place is a mess, and things need organizing, labeling, shelving, the card catalogs are unusable due to their disorder, overdue notices have not been owled out, we don't know what is in and what is out and what is just misplaced...”

“I get it, you need some more hands,” Draco said, easing Oliver down some. “I can start, well, whenever I suppose,” he said, it just now starting to dawn on him with that admission. Did he have a job? Him? He got a job? He went out, submitted an application, sat through an interview (of sorts), and now he had a job? He couldn't believe this. No Malfoy had ever done such a thing, and this wasn't something that ever happened to a werewolf. There must be a catch; this all must be a trick.

“Alright, listen, if you are feeling up to it, how about tomorrow? Bright and early at six o'clock? I can help you punch in, run you through the lay-out, introduce you to the systems and such, and by seven we will be ready to get to work?” he said, looking so relieved, even to an extent that rivaled Draco.

Draco looked at Oliver, really looked into him, to see why he had gone through all this effort. He expected to see his desperation to have the position filled, or pity for him and thus why he would offer the job. What he didn't expect to see was Oliver being upstanding and honest.

“Oh god,” Draco said, almost looking disappointed.

“What?”

“You are just genuinely a really decent person,” he said, Oliver looking confused, not sure how Draco would know one way or another, and not sure how it was a bad thing like he was seemingly making it out to be.

“Sorry?” he offered, still confused.

Draco just shook his head. “Tomorrow, six,” he said, excitement filling him again.

“Right, six. I can introduce you to Connor, he's a decent chap,” he said, looking grateful, relieved, almost enthusiastic.

“Right,” Draco said, daring to smile a little. Oliver shook his hand one more time before parting ways to go back to his job.

“Did you just get a job, Daddy?” Clarissa asked once they were alone, or as alone as they could be in the middle of Diagon Alley.

“I think so,” he said, looking at Oliver's retreating head still.

“That means you can wear that tie I got you!” she exclaimed with utter joy, Draco sighing, knowing he would have to, to appease her. They walked together at a good slow pace, but Diagon Alley seemed louder than usual, like a commotion was heading his way. Draco had so far been free of any pestering, of photographing, of harassing, so hearing this noise slowly approaching was the death of all enjoyment he had been having that day as reality came crashing back down upon him. He had a job, however, so certainly no reporter could truly bring him down, no way.

The first to appear simply took his picture, and Clarissa, always able to make the best of this, smiled and held her father's hand as they walked, at all times willing -and capable- of taking a flattering candid shot. Paparazzi eventually appeared who weren't silent, however, and the experience went from a hassle to a headache very quickly. It was one thing to be photographed, but to have people shout at you the whole time, it was no wonder they got so many grumpy shots. Who wouldn't be grumpy after having shouting people surround you no further than five feet away while flashing bright lights in your eyes for several hours? Anyone who could withstand that was a better man than him.

“Draco! Draco! How did you take the news of Ginny's pregnancy?” they shouted, demanded, swarmed. Draco blinked at them for a moment, caught off guard by the question, that question of all questions far from the top of things he expected to be posed to him that day. He sighed however, with a slight pinkness setting into his cheeks and a squareness in his shoulders as he smiled bashfully.

“Draco, how do you feel about being a father again?”

“Draco, will you be revealing the identity of the mother or mothers of your first two children?”

“Draco, how did the Weasley family take the news?”

“Does this mean there will be a marriage in your future?”

“Draco, was there any point you doubted the paternity of the child?”

“Boy or girl?”

“When is she due?”

Everyone was posing him questions, one after another, them practically calling over each other so he couldn't have answered them even if he had wanted to or tried.

“Ginny and I couldn't be happier,” he said quietly, flashbulbs erupting, his voice almost drown out but Draco not fighting to be heard, they would hear him if they wanted to.

“Why have you not revealed that she is pregnant before now?” another asked.

“Because of this very reaction you are giving,” Draco laughed, pushing forward with Clarissa toted along by her hand, to push past some of the photographers who were congesting the already narrow streets and making it difficult for anyone to get their shopping done. The common people gave glares of contempt at Draco, like he had welcomed this mess, like he was enjoying himself, and they resented him for the hassle his presence created for them. He knew they blamed him, not the stupid paparazzi, and he wished he could stop them and explain that he hated the attention as much as they hated that he got it, but there was nothing he could do, and no way he would ever be able to convince anyone to believe him.

“Draco,” Ginny said, Draco and Ginny meeting in the middle of Diagon Alley, having pushed forward to meet coming from opposite directions. A photog-moment presented itself as Draco leaned in to give Ginny a small, very chaste, peck on the lips as a greeting. Not some extravagant PDA that the tabloids would surely write it up as, but just a typical greeting between two adults in a relationship…but that's not the reaction they got with the flashing and the calling and even a few cheers and praise. With the amount of excitement that erupted from the crowd, one would think Draco had just swooped Ginny backwards into his arms and planted the most passionate kiss on her film had ever recorded.

“Why don't we get inside before we go completely blind,” Draco muttered to her, him wearing sunglasses for this exact reason, noticing how un-thrilled his son looked, and how intimidated his daughter appeared, and how tired around the eyes Ginny seemed. They escaped into a business, a small shop where they could eat, a dark place where they couldn't be seen. There were no windows, no way for anyone to get a picture of them for as long as they were inside, sanctuary, for the time it took them to eat a meal. For Draco, that actually could be a long while.

“Oh, my, God,” Ginny said, sitting down with Draco, the children across from them at the round table.

“Today of all days?” Draco asked, looking at Ginny's large tummy, bared for all to see. She was still dressed conservatively, but seven months pregnant was hard to disguise, her `girls' a little demanding of attention themselves while so snuggly contained in the straining blouse.

“It was hot, prosecute me,” she said, taking a sip of the water that was already laid out for them.

“I got my wand!” Clarissa announced, hoping her big event would not be overshadowed by anything, not even the pending news that her father had gotten a job. She wanted her moment to brag.

“Really? What did it end up being?” Ginny asked kindly.

“Elder, ten inches long, Phoenix tail feather!” she said, pulling it out to show the group her newest most prized position.

“Only ten inches?” Michelangelo scoffed.

“Yeah, because I'm not trying to compensate for anything,” Clarissa retorted and Draco had to take a sip of water to stop himself from laughing at Michelangelo's expense. What Clarissa had said was mean, but Michelangelo had been antagonistic, so he got what was due, and he would not step in unless things escalated. Still it wasn't nice to laugh.

“A Phoenix, wow, I hadn't expected that,” Ginny said with a smile, Clarissa so alight with pride you would think she was the one that was a proud parent to be. She had a new baby, a wand, and she handled it with such tenderness, setting it down so gently, Ginny had to laugh. There would be a point when that wand would find its way into mud, it would get disarmed and tossed across a room to clatter on the floor, it would get stuck in unmentionable substances and rapped off of all sorts of objects, but for a short time it was shiny and new and therefore delicate as glass in Clarissa's eyes.

“It is a handsome wand, if I do say so myself,” Draco said with an air of sophistication.

“It is a masculine wand then?” Ginny asked, Draco nodding, Clarissa giggling.

“Mr. Ollivander seemed convinced I would work best with a feminine wand, tried all sorts of varieties, but none of them worked. This one he tried only as a last resort, and it was the perfect fit!”

“He said something about her needing more of a balance rather than something that complemented her,” Draco elaborated. Clarissa was just so darn sweet, she didn't need a sweet wand.

“Dragons are better,” Michelangelo said ruefully.

“I like dragons, but phoenixes are wonderful too,” Draco said, trying to prevent his children from bickering.

“Mr. Ollivander said that Daddy had a unicorn hair in his wand,” Clarissa said and Draco looked pained, like he wished his daughter had not just said that.

“A unicorn hair?” Ginny laughed.

“I always thought you had a piece of a Dragon in your wand,” Michelangelo said, almost challenging him to say he was wrong.

“There is nothing wrong with unicorns, they are very powerful magical beasts,” Draco mumbled.

“They are sissy,” Michelangelo said.

“Powerful magical beasts,” Draco repeated, though pouting.

“Aw, that is so cute! I can totally see you with a unicorn wand! A feminine wand, who knew?” Ginny laughed, Draco's pout only setting in place.

“Your brother Ron has a unicorn hair wand,” Draco argued.

“And I never let him hear the end of it,” Ginny laughed as the waiter came to them, reading off to them their options and taking their orders, saving Draco from being teased further…for the time being.

Author's Note/Summery:

A trip to Diagon Alley, something I had been waiting to write for ages. Gringott was a fun scene; Clarissa and Michelangelo are so fun to write, poor Clarissa had not enjoyed the railcar ride. Clarissa is darling, however, and Draco wants a little girl SO bad. Draco and Ginny cuteness is fun too. He gave her a flower, awwww. Clarissa getting her wand was a scene I had planned out from nearly the beginning of this whole story. I just loved the thought of her being so sweet and Ollivander so unimpressed. The way she handles her wand later, as thought it were the most precious and delicate thing ever seemed realistic in my eyes, yes? I did that with my wand, until I snapped it in half *feels like Ron* Ginny and Michael scenes are fun too, he is such a brat. You keep asking “what will bring them together?” Nachos. What? Yeah, like I would actually give you the real answer at this point? =P

GINNY REVEALED THE PREGNANCY! Well, I'M excited. I love how she did it too, just like BAM no nonsense. I tried to keep it so Hollywood with the paparazzi. Baby-shower? Haven't written one yet, I sort'a forgot. *shifty eyes* but the beauty of writing ahead is I can adapt what I have to include things asked for or questioned. Baby Shower you ask? On the way. :]

DRACO HAS A JOB! Wow, I'm just full of fun developments and good news this chapter aren't I. He also REALLY doesn't seem to like it when people say stuff about his hairline, if you haven't noticed so far in this fic. YAY for Oliver Wood. How could I NOT have him in this fic, right? *drools* More of hi to come from now on. Stupid DUMBledore. If he weren't already dead I would wish he were dead. I kind'a feel bad for how Draco was treated by his boss at first, but that is just how things are for werewolves, so this isn't me “picking on Draco again” this is just him being a werewolf, a sort of fact of life I guess.

We close with the start of lunch (next chapter picks right up at lunch, no worries) and we got to make fun of poor Draco. A unicorn hair wand? I always wrote him as having such in all honesty, and now it is cannon, so I win…even though cannon sucks and Jo needs to choke on a pair of hairy balls. *smiles sweetly*

I hope you all liked the chapter that lacked both a LOT of angst and a flashback. Get ready for chapter 9, it's coming at you soon, and damn it I want reviews! I'm a needy, greedy, demanding bitch. That's right, I said it, so do it!

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Fallen Angel

Chapter 09

“Daddy got a job!” Clarissa so kindly announced halfway through the lunch, once enough time had passed that she realized Draco wasn't going to do so himself. She didn't see why her father would not be sharing the wonderful news and gloating over the accomplishment. She felt he was just being modest, which was a silly virtue in her opinion.

“What?” Ginny said, her fork halfway to her mouth but now forgotten as she stared at Draco.

“It's nothing,” he dismissed. “I didn't want to say anything until I made sure that is wasn't just going to turn into a `sorry, our mistake,' situation. I really didn't think I needed to spread the disappointment around,” he elaborated bashfully.

“Well, where is it?” Michelangelo asked, happy for his father but able to share his skepticism too. The boys were so much alike.

“Albus Dumbledore Library,” Draco said and Michelangelo made a face and Ginny raised her eyebrows.

“You want to be a Librarian?' she asked.

“It was a position that was open, so I applied. I could have just as easily been a baker -if I it was legal for me to be around food- or a florist…and don't look at me like that,” he said, pointing his fork at her. “I was classified a librarian and historian while working for the Ministry.”

“This calls for a celebration,” Ginny said with a smile.

“No, no!” Draco hissed, shaking his head and waving his hands in a crossing out motion.

“Yes, oh, I will owl Lupin and Tonks first, since they will be the happiest to hear…and then my family, oh they will be so thrilled! We can have some wine, and cake and…” Ginny said, trailing off in her glee, Draco just slumping in his chair, a little embarrassed. He was excited, but he didn't want to get his hopes up so high…he had been disappointed too many times in the past, Ginny obviously hadn't. She would learn, though the thought made him sad.

“I am happy for you, Father,” Michelangelo said, that air of sophistication about him, but his sincerity known to Draco without Michelangelo having to express it.

“Me more,” Clarissa chimed in, smiling broadly in her squinty-eyed fashion.

“Thank you,” he said, still digging at his food where the rest of them had finished already. Moments passed, and with Draco only having taken a single bite, Michelangelo sighed.

“Can I go to the Quidditch shop, please,” he asked, drawing out the word `please' considerably, unable to sit there and watch his father pick apart his food into the tiniest bits and nibble at it at the slowest pace imaginable any longer.

“We are attempting to have a nice family lunch together, Michael,” Draco reminded him, implying that it couldn't be a `nice family lunch' without him there, Ginny adding onto that more of the reason.

“You are in enough trouble already; we won't have you wondering around on your own. That privilege has been revoked,” she said quite simply as she sat there, wishing herself that Draco could eat whole bites rather than the nibbles he managed, but couldn't complain because he was eating, so she would wait.

Michelangelo huffed.

“I could go with him,” Clarissa offered and Michelangelo didn't look elated over that, but still looked to his father to see if that was an agreeable proposition.

“I would rather not have my two darling children out and about, unsupervised, in Diagon Alley with the paparazzi out as they are. Ginny would need to be with Michael at the very least, if not me anyways.”

“Oh, come on, I can keep Michael out of trouble and I want to see the shop too,” Clarissa argued.

“We can go there together after lunch,” Ginny said and Draco nodded as he was taking a bit of his salad and therefore his mouth was preoccupied.

“I think you and Daddy should have a bit of alone-time right now. I mean, he has a job now, you have the baby news, and you can tolerate his slow eating…the shop is just across the street,” she said, despite her chiming voice, her proposal astutely expressed.

Draco just raised his eyebrows and tilted his head over to look at Ginny to make the call.

“Oh no, don't you dare leave this decision up to me and make me out to be the bad guy,” she said, crossing her arms. They were his children, he could tell them no.

“Sure, why not,” he said and Ginny sighed. Then again, maybe he couldn't. Clarissa stood and Michelangelo followed suit, not ecstatic over the fact that his little sister would be babysitting him, but glad enough to be getting out of there.

“Come on now, if you are not going to hold to your punishment, at least take into consideration the press that is out there who would pounce on them if caught alone,” Ginny fumed at Draco before the children even had a chance to procure a hasty retreat.

“What do I care if someone takes my picture?” Michelangelo asked, sounding quite arrogant. “The more girls who see it the better if you ask me,” he said and Draco put the back of his hand that held his fork in front of his mouth and he propped his elbow up on the table, to hide his smile.

Ginny saw through that though, as the children departed, and smacked his upper arm with the back of her hand, knocking her elbow out from under him.

“And you are encouraging him,” she barked.

“Oh, he likes the attention, for the time being, so let him,” Draco said, still smiling and hoping it would ease Ginny down. It didn't.

“He is in trouble, the point is he isn't supposed to be enjoying himself,” he disputed.

“Making him feel like crap won't fix him or change what he has done, and he is going to a court hearing in less than a week where his punishment will be dished out, so why should I deny him the simple pleasure of some fresh air on a nice day?” he asked and Ginny huffed. Draco abandoned his meal to slide along the bench to be up against her, and stuck his nose behind her ear. “Besides, maybe I really just wanted you alone with me for a moment,” he whispered, his tongue darting out to flick the back of her ear and causing her to shudder and take a deep breath.

---------------------------

Michelangelo and Clarissa were instantly amidst a crowd of paparazzi the second they exited the restaurant, them all waiting for the family to exit. What they got were just the children and though they were not the focus of their two biggest stories at the moment, this was the first time any of them had seen them alone, without Draco or Ginny, or some other family member and guardian there to shield them. They saw the golden opportunity to “interview” them and jumped on it.

“Michael, Claire-sweetie,” they called, the children hoping to cross the street. They didn't even look over at the people that swarmed around them at their backs. “Out on your own for a moment?” they asked, neither child saying anything. “How do you feel about the new baby?” they pressed. Clarissa just glanced over at them but they otherwise did not respond.

“Do you two have the same mother?” another asked and Michelangelo's expression darkened. “Do you know who she is? Could you tell us her name?” they asked, using friendly, condescending tones that adults often used when trying to manipulate children. They didn't realize the intelligence or maturity of the children they were dealing with.

“Don't you dear speak about my mother,” Michelangelo finally fumed and Clarissa spun around to grab his wrist. There was that Malfoy temper to take into consideration too.

“Come on,” she said, shaking her head. “Don't give them the satisfaction, don't even speak to them,” she said, pulling him along.

Michelangelo glared at the photographers as he was lead along, almost daring them to leave their station and follow after. The paparazzi looked torn between continuing with the children, or waiting out there to catch Draco and Ginny.

“Honestly, how dare they ask such things? Write what they like, but to interrogate someone like that on the street? Blurt out personal questions for all to hear? Who the hell do they think they are?” Michelangelo demanded as the entered the bright shop, not caring that those already inside would overhear him.

“They are soulless scoundrels,” Clarissa dismissed, letting go of her brother to look at a rack of Quidditch robes that were done up in a girly fashion so that they looked the same as any boy's, but in shades of pink.

“Yet you have never shown any qualms over playing up to their cameras in the past,” Michelangelo bit back.

“You can't deny that you too enjoy the attention to some degree or another, Michael, so forgive me for attempting to present to the media a more flattering public face,” she snapped, her girlish tones dropped considerably without her father there, but her voice still high and chiming regardless. She was only eleven after all.

“You shouldn't care what the public thinks.”

“But I do, and so does Dad, and Ginny, and so do you.”

“No I don't.”

“Yes you do, everyone does. If someone says otherwise, they are either a fool, or a liar,” she said, abandoning the robes to wonder further into the shop. Michelangelo looked around from side to side quickly before following after her.

“Fine, I am no fool. But if they get a picture of me looking surly, or a quote of me telling them off, it's what they deserve even if they think I'm a bit of a bastard for saying what everyone is already thinking. What do I care?”

“That is your problem, Michael, you don't care, but Dad does. You seem oblivious to the fact that -through your actions- you cause those around you a lot of grief.”

“I know I have done some stupid shit this last month, and Dad is stressed, but…”

“But nothing, Michael. You react to things like Ginny and such harshly, and you feel you are right and justified because you are only taking your own feelings into consideration. You don't like how Ginny is equating into the family, so regardless of how any of the rest of us feels about her, you rebel. You feel Dad doesn't treat you like a man, so you go against what he explicitly tells you, and you end up in trouble and more limitations are placed on you, and you somehow still manage to complain that he doesn't trust you. This kind of narcissism you exude does not bode well for someone who claims to want to be treated like a man rather than a boy,” she snapped upon spinning at him. “I get it, you are in that transitional period between being a boy, and a man, and your maturity teeters between the two…but for your own sake if not for our father's, please, grow up!” she said before turning and storming away, leaving Michelangelo to stand there, outraged that his sister would speak to him in such a way, the shop keeper looking over at them and Michelangelo's face reddening in embarrassment now on top of anger.

“Oh,” he said, ready to make an argument out of this. “Like you are one to talk about maturity, when you can't even act your age around Dad,” he retaliated, following after her. “Have you EVER even had an actual conversation with him without your baby-voice and talk of dancing unicorns and sugar-plums? It's always `Daddy' this, and `Daddy' that, and you think I need to grow up?”

“Just because I play up to Dad's love for a sweet and darling daughter does not mean I have the maturity and understanding of a child. Maybe if you expended a little more effort into being a darling son any man could be proud of -say half as much as you invest in being a selfish jackarse- maybe Dad would have a little less stress in his life!”

“Oh, you mean to blame all Dad's stress on me?”

“Well you are certainly not helping anything now are you? You do not have to fix his problems, but not adding to them certainly shows you care.”

“I do care!”

“Then maybe you should act like it, starting with caring a little more how you are portrayed in the media because that is a direct reflection of our father and his parenting skills to the rest of the world who don't know us.”

Michelangelo narrowed his eyes.

“But how dare they ask about our mother!” he argued.

“Just ignore them. They want a story, and why give them one? If not by your words, by your pictures. If all they have are nasty, scowling pictures of you, they are going to build stories about you being some kind of surly horrible son.”

“It doesn't bother you that we do not even know who our mother is?” Michelangelo pressed, ignoring Clarissa's point to press on with this question that he needed an answer.

“What does it matter? She died when we were too young to remember her, and Dad doesn't like talking about her so it is not likely that he is withholding anything we would even want to know,” Clarissa said dismissively cold, picking up a Quaffle and tossing it in her hands, Michelangelo and her in the back corner of the shop now.

“Don't you ever wonder why Dad never talks about her? What happened between them or how she died?”

“Not really,” Clarissa said quite honestly. “You can't change the past, and I can't see the answers bringing me any kind of happiness, there no way being a happy ending out of a tale of our mother's murder, so why bother knowing at all? It will only make us sad.”

“Life isn't about happy endings, Claire.”

“No, but it is about maintaining happiness in a world as shitty and unfair as this, so sue me for trying to maintain the little bit of stability I have in my life.”

“We don't even know her name,” Michelangelo then said, voice more defeated, like he was not drawing any comfort from his sister, like finding that she had no desire to know their mother disappointed him and made him `wrong' for wanting to know.

“McGucken. Her name was McGucken,” Clarissa said, looking at her brother, ceasing in her tossing of the red ball to frown her brows at him.

“A last name, that's all we have. We don't even know what she looks like, Dad doesn't even have a picture,” he said, letting his sister know how desperate he was to know his origins.

“Why are you so bothered by this now? You have never once spoken to me about any desire -beyond simple curiosity- to learn about our mother.”

“The fact that the media doesn't know, the fact that Dad can't bare mention her, the fact that Nana is so dead set over pretending she never even existed…it's like some great conspiracy, to keep from us who she was. I agree with you when you say it can't be for any reason but a terribly upsetting one that she has not been shared with us, but I can't live my life not knowing who my mother was,” he said, Clarissa just tilting her head and feeling sad for him. She could not relate to him like he clearly so desperately desired. He expected to be able to share this with her, and have her relate completely, and support him in this. Instead he felt alienated by these feelings of his. He almost looked ashamed as he finally looked down, away from her.

“You remember her, don't you,” Clarissa said, Michelangelo not looking up being answer enough. “Michael…”

“I was three when she died…you were two…” he said and Clarissa bit her bottom lip. “I remember her: the shape of her shoulder as she carried me as I would lean my cheek against it. I remember her smell, and her hair…” he said, hugging his arms.

“Is that why you hate Ginny so much? You remember mum, and you can't accept anyone else to take her place?” Clarissa asked, knowing that there was almost nothing more important to a werewolf than smell when it came to their relationships with one another, and a pup knowing his mother's scent was central to his feeling of safety and support.

Michelangelo just shook his head. “No…it is because, when I see Ginny, I think of what I can remember of mum, but the more I see Ginny, the more she takes over those memories I have, and the less I can remember,” he said, eyes stinging. There must be a lot of dust in the air or something, because it was making his nose runny too.

“Michael,” Clarissa soothed, dropping the ball to hug her brother, him allowing her, but not allowing himself to cry.

“I'm afraid I am going to forget her completely soon,” he said, breath just a little shaky but nothing more.

Clarissa didn't know what she could say to him in comfort because she had no way of understanding how he felt, had no way of knowing what he was going through. Ginny was her mother, because she was the only mother she had ever known…but Michelangelo had known their mother, and he couldn't withstand the thought of losing what little he had of her, even if the exchange was gaining a mother in Ginny. Clarissa just hugged him, having learned from her father that nothing healed an aching heart better than a hug from someone who loved you dearly.

------------------------------

Draco sat with Ginny, alone now at their table, and they laughed. They were in a serious relationship, yet they still flirted like they were in the first stages of dating, if even that. They flirted like they were still a forbidden romance, and it was cute to behold. Draco could get Ginny to blush, then he would laugh and look down, and she would tuck his hair behind his ear so she could better see his face, and he would catch her hand before she could pull it away and kiss it, and she would then laugh and bite her bottom lip.

“You look beautiful today,” he said and she shook her head, rolling her eyes. “No, I won't have you dismissing that, you are beautiful. Your skin glows, your hair is so soft and bright, your smile reaches your eyes…”

“Please, I am seven months pregnant,” she laughed.

“I did not realize pregnant was synonymous with grotesquely hideous,” he teased and Ginny pinched him.

“Prat.”

“Ah, see? That's how I know you love me. You think I'm a prat and yet still fuck me,” he said and Ginny blushed and look around as though someone would be near to overhear them.

“I think that makes me a whore, more than assures my love for you,” she argued, looking down her nose at him in a challenging way.

“Well, you're my whore,” he said, reaching around to grab her by the bum and slide her closer to him so he could plant his lips on her neck and throat, kissing and breathing on her skin, causing her to giggle as she tilted her head back. They were alone, and in a dark corner of the restaurant, but still, this was rather bold behavior for anyone in a public place.

“Then you are my man-whore,” she said as Draco squeezed her bum.

“I thought I was a prat?” he argued.

“You can't be both?”

“Well, you are a bitch as well, so I guess it's possible,” he said and Ginny leaned down to bite his shoulder then, rather hard.

“Ow, bitch,” he said, shoving her but her grabbing his upper arms and pulling him with her so that he leaned forward and she could plant a good strong kiss on his lips. She loved his lips, always so easily formed into a pout, so ready to pull into a smirk. She loved sucking on the bottom to make it a little fuller, a little pinker. He had perfectly kissable lips. Draco couldn't complain about Ginny's himself.

They carried on for a moment before finally settling, Draco keeping his hand on Ginny's inner-thigh, however, both acting as though they had behaved the whole time, nothing to see there.

“Do you think the children are behaving?” Ginny asked.

“Come on now, they are mine,” Draco said, looking at her and Ginny smiled and nodded.

“So that means we should get going soon, so as to get them out of whatever trouble they have found themselves in?”

“In a moment, I haven't finished my…” Draco said as he looked up but he didn't finish because there was a woman before him, and she was throwing a drink in his face from across the table.

Ginny gasped as she too was splashed a little, but to no degree like Draco who had gotten a face full and was now sitting there with his mouth open in outrage as he looked across the table but not quite at the woman, his eyes burning with the liquor and it now drizzled from his chin.

“That is for Albus Dumbledore,” the woman fumed, retreating almost instantly so as not to be retaliated after making her purpose known.

“What? Are you kidding me?” Ginny shouted, standing from the table but Draco just reaching over without looking at her, grabbing her wrist to prevent her from going after the woman.

“No, don't,” he said, wiping his eyes and blinking rapidly, face dripping, the front pieces of his hair stringing, the collar and front of his shirt sopping.

“What the hell…? Who does she think she is?” Ginny fumed, voice carrying across the establishment so the woman could plainly hear her.

“Please, it is just a drink. I have had far worse things thrown in my face, the least hurtful of which being insults. Please, sit,” Draco said, pulling on Ginny's wrist. She sat, and grabbed her cloth napkin while doing so, starting on immediately dabbing at Draco's face.

“I can't believe she would just do that!” Ginny continued to rant, Draco looking up at her through his pale stringing hair.

“You have not gone out with me much on the street. This is not that uncommon of an occurrence,” he assured her, as though it would make her feel better to know this was not as bad as what he had endured in the past. It didn't.

“How can people be so close-minded and hateful? She doesn't even know you! Do you know her?”

“No, but I don't have to, because everyone knows who I am, or they at least think they do. They can recognize me, which to them signifies their knowing me, enough to judge me, enough to take it upon themselves to do something,” he said, looking down at his black, long-sleeved t-shirt and whipping at the wetness on his chest.

“You seem so accepting of this,” Ginny said, sounding sad now, not liking that Draco was not throwing a fit like she would imagine just about anyone else doing.

Draco looked up at her and blinked those beautiful blue eyes at her that were a little reddened from the drink. He then sighed, knowing he was not living up to his past-persona's reputation for instantaneous indignation. He was a lot meeker now than he was as a young man, and that seemed to bewilder Ginny in many ways, like she still couldn't quite believe much of that had been an act, like she rather believe his timidity was an act now. Sadly, it wasn't.

“I am just happy that it was simply some drink and not Bubotuber Pus like that one time, or…”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” Ginny gasped. Draco just looked at her with this sad expression like she knew he couldn't be cruel enough to just make this up given how upset it was obviously making her. “Why are people so mean?”

“Because I am a werewolf, and a Death Eater, and I was a bit of a bastard when I was young.”

“So?”

Draco just shrugged while standing, not sure he could say anything that would get Ginny to understand if she couldn't grasp it yet on her own.

“Let's go before they start tossing cutlery at us next,” he said, attempting to be funny, but Ginny not laughing.

“I think you are a wonderful man, Draco, and I don't like that you don't stand up for yourself like you would have years ago, like you should,” Ginny said and she linked arms with him.

“My father isn't here for me to threaten people with anymore, Gin. Telling people `wait until my father hears about this' worked then, but only minimally after a while, and a threat from a short fifty-pound albino gets more laughs than anything,” he said quite blandly as he lead her away, past the table where the woman and her party were seated, so as to maybe display the baby belly Draco was certainly more than proud of. The woman and her company looked a little outraged at what a site Ginny made, as pregnant as she was, and Draco couldn't help a narrow-eyed smirk as he passed, chin held high in his accomplishment.

“Thank you,” he said once past them, reaching up with his free arm to grab the hand that was link with his arm and gave it a squeeze. Ginny believed in him, and that gave him the strength to be proud of who he was, something he sometimes struggled with.

They were off to find his children and see what trouble they had caused, or what trouble had found them.

---------------------

“Come on, Mikey,” Clarissa laughed as she ran ahead of her brother, dodging through the crowd of Diagon Alley with no consideration for who they were cutting off.

“Don't call me Mikey,” he called after her in warning, in hot pursuit.

“You are going to have to catch me to stop me, Mikey,” she laughed, disappearing between two very obtuse and stout witches, Michelangelo having to find another way around that would not cost him time or lose her. “Come on, you're faster than this!” she laughed, Michelangelo appearing just beside her but still behind her. She was looking back at him and didn't see that she was about to collide with someone until it was too late. With an “umph” and a stumble Clarissa bounced off the man's sizable posterior and allowed Michelangelo to catch up with her. He caught his sister by the arm and they both looked up at the man with whom they had collided.

“Excuse me,” he said with a chuckle as he turned around, his massiveness rotating to reveal a camera hung around his neck and resting against his round stomach. Michelangelo leaned over -his sister being considerably shorter than him now- and directed her to get behind him as he placed himself in front, protectively.

“Well, well, if it isn't the wee-Malfoys. I heard you were out today with your father and his girlfriend Miss Ginny. I feared I had missed you while on other duty,” he said, raising his camera to point it down at them.

“I will ask you kindly to point that camera elsewhere, sir,” Michelangelo said curtly, in a fashion befitting a Malfoy. The man just smiled, ready to click away anyways, but a commotion grabbed his attention and he turned away.

“Duty calls,” he said, raising his camera and flashing it repeatedly along with several others around that were then revealed to be paparazzi as well.

“What duty?” Clarissa asked softly, looking up at her brother. Michelangelo shushed her as he grabbed her wrist and pulled her along with him, pushing through the crowed to see what the commotion was. They had left their father and Ginny back the way they had come, so who else could be in Diagon Alley and demanding so much attention? Michelangelo did not envy them, but he was certainly intrigued enough to pursue the answer.

Clarissa was pulled along, and Michelangelo emerged on the other side to find a small opening before some stairs. They were back at Gringott, and above them were two men, one holding his hands up as though to direct all comments and questions to him, and another dressed respectfully but cheaply, standing not far behind the man's shoulder, looking a little amazed as though he were not used to this kind of attention but reveling in it all the same.

“Mr. Kniklock, Kniklock! How do you feel about the fine? Was it fair?” a man called out, Michelangelo looking over at the one who was shouting then up at the man they were calling to, his eyes darkening.

“He is the man that took the picture,” Clarissa whispered before gasping and grabbing Michelangelo by the back of the shirt and holding him back. “No, don't make a scene,” she warned, planting her feet and Michelangelo glaring up at the man with eyes of cold fire.

“I did not realize I was breaching Ministry Security at the time, but I do feel terrible about the headache I caused them, so I do not blame them for carrying out their reprimand. It is only fair,” the man said as though his words were highly practiced, his lawyer -the well dressed man beside him- apparently approved as he ran his hands down his robes' lapel in a satisfied manner.

More questions erupted.

“How much did you sell the photos for?”

“Now we can't be talking about that,” the lawyer chuckled in a good-friends sort of way that made him seem like a pal but it was as fake as a two-horned unicorn.

“Why not?” Michelangelo barked over the crowed, his young, angry voice standing out enough for those around him, and the two men up on the stairs, to look over at him.

“Michael,” Clarissa hissed at him, grabbing his upper arm then.

“Why not tell these people how much money you made off of blatantly violating Ministry security and exploiting my father?” he demanded, holding his free arm out to indicate the people that would like to know the answer.

“Ah, Michelangelo Malfoy,” Agreus Kniklock said with a smile, showing no ill contempt as he addressed the boy calmly. “Oh, I have heard a lot about you, and your temper,” he said, the reporters all around muttering at that, everyone there aware of the trouble Michelangelo had recently found himself in, one of them even possibly being the one who had penned that particular article.

“Michael,” Clarissa pleaded, pulling on her brother's arm.

“So? How much? Certainly enough to afford that ghoul of a lawyer, enough that this fine didn't even dent your account, enough that you can walk out of the bank after making this withdrawal and have a smile on your face!” he growled, everyone looking between him and Kniklock on the stairs.

“You better watch yourself, boy. Your father is not the only one I took pictures of, but the only one I sold. You have quite the reputation at twelve, and though I have ethics against exploiting children-“

“But not adults, not my father…”

“I know people who keep tabs on you who would love my pictures,” he warned.

“Is that a threat?” Michelangelo barked, taking a step forward and pulling his sister along with him.

“Michael, please,” she said, knowing that this scene would not reflect well on anyone involved, nor their father, who would have nothing to do with this and yet have it all turned against.

“I wouldn't threaten a child…but then again, you are a werewolf,” the man snapped, his lawyer attempting to step in, but freezing and staring in shock as Michelangelo drew his wand and pointed it at Kniklock. The crowd reacted in gasps and flashes, but no one stepped in.

“Michael, no!” Clarissa begged as Michelangelo stepped forward some but otherwise made no move in attacking the man.

“I may be a werewolf, but I am a better person than you, and my father is a better man than you could ever hope to be,” he growled, teeth bared slightly.

“What would the son of a Death Eater know of decency?” the man snapped back, his lawyer turning his back on Michelangelo to grab his client by the shoulders and shake his head while muttering not to say another word.

Draco and Ginny having heard the commotion after leaving the eatery, and Draco's perception wide open to understand without seeing a thing what was happening, pushed forward to thwart his son's attempt at defending his -Draco's- honor before something really bad happened. Ginny came forward into the opening to be closest to Michelangelo and Clarissa, and gasped while reaching for the boy as he moved his wand.

“Michael,” she shouted, fearing he would do something stupid.

He did, but instead of casting a spell, however, Michelangelo dropped his wand to his side as he rushed forward up the few steps to be right up on the man who was distracted by his lawyer's advice, leaving him to turn and widen his eyes in surprise as Michelangelo grunted in effort and kneed the man in the groin.

Kniklock cursed and grabbed himself, falling practically to his knees as he crushed his eyes shut, Draco behind his son within milliseconds, grabbing him by the shoulders and roughly pulling him backwards and down a step so that he was away from the man. Flashes were erupting from all directions and reflected off of Draco's sunglasses as Michelangelo stood there, breathing heavily in his anger, not fighting against his father's hold as he glared at the fallen man. He did not protest as his father practically dragged him backwards, through the crowd and back towards the Leaky Cauldron, though he did try and keep his eyes on the man for as long as he could.

Clarissa followed after with Ginny, both girls looking worried and distraught, Draco's face concealed by chic shades and a bland but stern mask, not letting Michelangelo walk on his own -unaided- even once they were in the thinned out crowed and nearly back to Muggle London.

----------------------

Draco was pulling on a clean shirt of a rich emerald green while Ginny stepped from the shower. She was hot, and Draco was in long sleeves. Just looking at him she sweated. She couldn't imagine how he could do it; then again, he was so thin he was always chilled.

“I can't believe what a scene Michael made,” she said for the ten thousandth time that afternoon, but the first since she had returned from her refreshing shower, which was but mere seconds before, however. “He is lucky Kniklock is not pressing charges, or hasn't yet at least,” she said, Draco just sitting down on the bed to brush his hair, the unmistakable sign that he was trying to hide a smile apparent on his face. “And you don't seem mad at all,” she accused, Draco just looking up at her with slightly amused eyes. “You are proud of him, because he did all that in defense of you,” she said and he just looked back at his knees and parted his hair while still brushing it. “I can't see how your son assaulting a man in full view of the public, of reporters, and the paparazzi is anything to be flattered by, or proud of,” she huffed.

“He did the exact same thing as I would have done in that situation, only I would have been dumb enough to hex the guy and been in some real trouble then,” he said, tucking his hair behind his ear to then work on the other side, tilting his head, the ends of his hair dragging across his lap.

“Draco-“

“Lest you forget that my father was sent to Azkaban, and shamed in the press by it,” he said and Ginny frowned at him. “I had to endure the ridicule of the papers, and the harsh questions of the reporters. My picture was taken, and terrible stories were written about me, and my family, and my friends.”

“Draco, just because you suffered through much the same thing, does not excuse what Michelangelo did,” she argued thought it was weak.

“That man got what was coming to him, and if Michael hadn't done something, I likely would have, and this mess still would have happened, only the story going on about how I had laid the guy out with a punch to the face right there on the steps of Gringott.”

“Still,” she pressed, rubbing her head vigorously with the towel, Draco taking time to observe her bare breasts and their movement as she did so.

“Please,” he said, standing to be behind her, to hold her against him like he always did, hands on her tummy, nose behind her ear. “Today is a good day, lets not ruin it,” he pleaded.

“Good day? Draco…”

“The baby news broke, I have a job, Clarissa got a wand, the weather was lovely…lets no dwell on the bad,” he said, rocking side to side with her. “Come on,” he said, feeling how tense she was still, hands on her damp skin.

“You are not going to punish him for this, are you?” she asked in a mildly defeated, more sort of fed-up tone.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he sighed into her neck, nibbling at it and Ginny just dropping the towel and giving up. Draco would handle his son any way he saw fit, though if it were her in charge, that boy's rump would be so raw from the wallop she would give him, he wouldn't be able to sit until his fifth year OWLs.

“Get dressed, Remus and Nymphadora will be here soon, Derrick and Marcus are already waiting,” he said, kissing the skin he had just nibbled at before pulling away.

“You up for this?”

“Hey, it was your idea to throw a revelry,” he said, waving his hand in an aloof motion as he exited the room. “It's just an excuse to drink.”

“You are sober,” she warned.

“For another short few moments or so,” he called back, Ginny just shaking her head and searching for her most supportive bra.

“Congrats Dre!” Nymphadora laughed as she pulled her cousin into a hug once he was barely down the stairs. She had just tripped over the troll-leg umbrella stand and was joined by Lupin who had made it past without indecent.

“Thank you,” he said, hugging her back. She didn't let go, so he just held out his hand while still in a hug with her, shaking Lupin's and smiling from around his cousin.

“You managed the near impossible,” he praised, Draco laughing.

“I had little to do with it, Remus, Oliver Wood is the one who talked to the lout who is now my boss and convinced him to hire me…given that, I'm not sure how smooth-flying this will be, thus I remain reserved,” he said and Nymphadora finally released him, at least partially.

“You are always reserved, unless you are drunk. We should get on that,” she jested, making to lead Draco along with her, arm around his narrow waist still. Ginny was making her way down the stairs and Draco turned to look over his shoulder upon her entrance.

“May I offer you an arm?” Lupin said and Ginny smiled.

“Thank you,” she said, linking arms with him and heading into the parlor where Draco's good Muggle friend Derrick was already waiting along with Marcus Belby, Draco's Support Wizard from the Beast Department who had been secretly helping them both for months so selflessly at great personal and professional risk. He had been the one who had supplied Draco with the extra Wolfsbane for Ginny under the table, and done all in his power to help them during the difficult times where they had feared loosing the baby. Draco owed the man so much due to his silence in the matter that Draco had to invite him. He was someone who could truly appreciate what an event this was, a werewolf getting a job. There too were several Weasleys which included Ron and their mum and dad. Bill was there to offer his support, and Michael and Clarissa were at the piano, making some noise and trying to stay out of the way of the “adults”, more specifically their nana who was a bit tipsy and therefore a bit overbearing…more than usual.

“Lets have a cheers for Draco, for announcing his fertility today,” Nymphadora declared, holding up her glass which was followed suit by the rest of the room, Draco laughing and blushing at his cousin's antics, gathered up by her one arm to be held at her side awkwardly. “One for his new job,” she said, everyone raising their glass again. “and one more for his new wand, something I know he will find great revel in flicking about,” she laughed, everyone toasting one last time before taking a sip from their glasses of varying sizes and contents.

Ginny looked over at Draco and he smiled bashfully and graciously accepted everyone's praise and congratulations. She was not sure how she felt about that last toast. He had confided in her once they were all home that he had been pressured into replacing his wand, and actually had. Though he was not banned from owning a wand now that he was fully cleared of all charges and no longer on probation, he was not fully qualified and therefore could not legally practice magic. It was unlikely that he would be able to find someone willing to qualify him, so he had spent his gold on a wand that was basically useless to him, and it would simply be there to taunt him.

Still, it was a beautiful wand.

“Here, for you. I didn't have time to get you anything for the occasion, and with your birthday just past it isn't like you need anything…but lucky for me you are easy to shop for,” Bill said, offering Draco a shallow box which revealed to be filled with candy upon Draco's opening it.

“Sponge candy, my favorite,” he said, thanking his quasi-brother. “I swear, you are all just trying to fatten me up. Your mother to bake a wolf-pie out of me,” he accused, no one refuting the first, and laughing at the second. He had gotten many small gifts for his birthday from each of the members of the family, and everyone had gotten him at least one box of sponge candy. He had enough to last him into the next year.

“Let's have a look at that wand, come on,” Ron encouraged, others joining in. Ginny edged over to Derrick and spoke to him casually while the men fawned over Draco's new wand.

“So, I know the story of how you and Draco met, but when was it that you were introduced to the magical world, seeing as you are a Muggle?” she enquired, Derrick just laughing and taking a sip of his drink.

“Oh, it isn't by how you might think,” he said. “My son, who is just a year younger than our Angel, married himself a witch, only he didn't know she was a witch at the time. He found out when he made a mess in the kitchen one evening and went to sweep it up with her favorite boom from the cupboard. Well, after flaying halfway across the neighborhood on a Clean Sweep, hanging on for dear life, she `fessed up, feeling the truth was easier than the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad showing up and having to modify his memories. He told me, the ordeal too flabbergasting to not tell one's closest family, but we otherwise all keeping it a secret for years under Ministry Decree. When Angel showed up three years ago I was accustomed to the idea, so though he said nothing, I was able to guess. He mentioned the prison Azkaban by name casually, thinking I wouldn't know it, but I was able to ask him how it was like there without the Dementors stationed as guards anymore and he just blinked at me like I had just struck him. You know that befuddled stare he has, it was a priceless moment. Angel had been on my mind for years, and I had deduced from my acquired knowledge -even though he had not really done anything peculiar- that he had had to have been a wizard, thus his unease and awkwardness in my Muggle automobile. I never knew what had become of that boy I had left on the curb in London, but eventually discovered that he had become a man, and a father,” he said, raising his glass as though in cheers, inclining his head towards Ginny.

“That's really amazing that he was able to connect with you, when he struggled then, and still now, to do much the same,” she said, astonished that with only an hour's time shared between them and few words, Draco and Derrick had kept each other close in mind and heart. It gave her much needed hope, hope that Draco was not as closed off as he seemed much of the time, and could grow to be trusting again.

“He says I saved his life, and that a bond is created between two individuals as a result of that. I do not doubt it, he is a special boy, but there is something there that connects us in a way I cannot articulate.”

“I now of that bond, Draco and I each share it respectively,” she said.

“Maybe that's what made the two of you meant to be. We both are well aware that Draco is a terribly untrusting and closed-off person.” “Ginny nodded. “You saved each other's lives?”

“A few times each,” she mumbled, suddenly modest, feeling he had out-saved her given what he had sacrificed.

“Then I have no doubts that you two can weather anything together. Come hell or high-water, you two will always have that bond, and that love you share of course,” he said, Ginny's cheeks warming with a humble and yet gleeful blush as she took reassurance from Derrick's words. She and Draco were connected, forever, whether they liked it or not, whether they were in a relationship or not, and that type of connection was so powerful that it lead Draco back to Derrick after more than a decade apart. Ginny drew more hope than ever from the Muggle man Draco had so seemingly oddly allowed into his trusts, now understanding, now heartened deeply.

Draco was with his quasi-brothers, laughing, when there was a knock at the front door. He didn't think twice about excusing himself to answer it, still in good spirits. He was a little drunk, not too much, and he was having a wonderful night, a few bumps along his day had done nothing to overshadow the good, and nothing would get him down, not even whomever was at the door. It was possible another Weasley was showing up to join in on the festivities, so he opened the door wide and readily, only leaving him to be a little startled and surprised by the stranger who stood before him.

“Hello,” he Scotsman said, Draco just blinking.

The man was tall, maybe as much as Ron, but thin. The first thing Draco noticed about him were the piercings. The man had a lot of them. Though it was obvious he was an adult, not a teenager or hoodlum, he had more metal on his face than a kid with braces. His right nostril on his long slightly hooked nose was pierced twice, his bottom lip was pierced three times and evenly space with one in the middle and one off to each side. Three were in his left eyebrow, and too many to count hanging from his ears. Looking beyond that, however, Draco saw the man was fair skinned, with heavily hooded green eyes, freckles, and wild red hair. The red hair was what really caught him off guard because what he had mistaken as a Weasley through the rippling glass of the door turned out to be a mass of wildly curling orange ringlets.

“Hello,” Draco said more slowly, sobering up quite readily, looking at the man who was dressed otherwise very neatly for someone as pierced as he was. A dress-shirt, tie, slacks, and shoes.

“I'm sorry to be calling unannounced, and I know you do not know me, but I am Connor, I will be working with you at the library,” he explained, making it clear now how he knew Draco. Draco was trying not to pry, mostly because he was, after all, a little drunk, and didn't trust himself not to have the guy believe he was a chicken by accident, so he was left to have to rely on the man's explanation.

“Oh, yes, Wood mentioned a Connor to me. Nice to meet you,” Draco said, extending his hand to the man, but it not being received. Draco found this odd.

“I came by to see you tonight, because though I have wanted to meet you for a long time now, I never had reason to try and…well, I didn't want to try and make contact if I didn't have to…well, not that it would be a terrible thing, I just figured you wouldn't want me…” he said, unable to commit to a singular thought or sentence.

“Forgive me, but what is this about? I was told I would be introduced to you in the morning, now you show up outside my house, stammering about some desire to have met me before now?” Draco asked, understandably skeptical and a little uneasy about this. He was hardly a celebrity, and those who emulated him tended to be greatly misguided souls indeed, but looking at Conner, with all his piercings, maybe that was exactly what Connor was.

“Well,” Connor said, pushing his hair back out of his eyes for a moment before looking up at Draco. “I just figured you were happy with your family so I wouldn't disturb that, but now with you and I being co-workers…” he said, looking as awkward as he sounded.

“What about you contacting me would affect my family in a negative way?” Draco asked, a little defensive now. He got that way about his family: his pups and now Ginny as well.

“The fact that I'm your son would probably cause some disorder in your already tumultuous life,” he said, Draco's eyes widening, looking at the man before him and seeing his wife, seeing her eyes, her hair…her son.

Conner licked his pierced lips and nodded, apparently getting the reaction he was expecting.

“Yeah, I figured this would be better addressed before you showed up for work tomorrow morning,” he said, wishing Draco would quit staring at him but understanding why he would.

“You…you are Christina's son…” he deduced, never having known about any such son before now.

“May I come in?” Connor requested pleadingly, knowing this would take some kind of explanation that really deserved a sit-down rather than be conducted on a stoop, half inside and half out in the open early evening.

Draco, without a word, stepped backwards and allowed Connor past him. He closed the door with his back up against it and just continued to stare.

“I understand, by your reaction, that you were never told about me. I had guessed as much, but this concretes it,” he said rather downtrodden.

“I did not realize she had a son,” Draco said, looking at the man before him up and down, mind reeling, and a little fuzzy.

“She did not raise me, her parents, my grandparents did. I hardly knew her, never really met her, only knew her by picture, and name,” he explained, as though that would make Draco feel better. It didn't.

“Why…why didn't she raise you?” Draco asked, Connor looking around and seeing nothing but the stairs as a place to rest and talk.

“Come here,” he said, moving backwards to sit, offering for Draco to join him, which he did, with a flop, still staring, unable to stop. He had a drink in one hand, and it was nearly forgotten as he gazed into the eyes of someone he believed dead, eyes that now belonged to someone else.

“Christina, my mother, did not raise me, like I said. From what I understand from my mumbee and pop-pop is she was young, and couldn't manage,” he explained and Draco finally blinked.

“How young was she?” he asked, his stomach clamping due to how much older than him she had been.

“I was born when she was sixteen, right before her last year of Hogwarts. She had taken her sixth year off to be tutored at home to deal with my pregnancy,” he explained and Draco's eyes widened and he turned to take a big gulp of his drink.

“That makes you…”

“Five month older than you,” Conner finished for him and Draco just nodded before taking another gulp of his drink. He might have been a bit fuzzy, but he could still tell if he was being lied to, and he wasn't, and that was all that made him so readily accepting of this, not fighting it or denying it all. It was why he needed a drink so badly.

“And you are my…”

“Step-son apparently,” Conner again finished for him, Draco nodding and finishing his drink in one last impressive gulp. “Yeah, I understand this is a lot to…uh…take in at once, thus why I came to you tonight, rather than wait for it to just come forward tomorrow. I wanted to meet you from the moment I learned from pop-pop that my mother had married, but when I learned it was someone my age, and that you two had already a family together, I didn't want to intrude. I was the son she did not want,” he said, looking down and Draco turned, wishing he could be of some comfort but unsure how, still not able to wrap his mind around this yet, this man…his step-son….still a stranger to him. “I couldn't help but feel she didn't want me while growing up, and when I heard of her having a family with someone else, children with someone else, it just kind'a cemented that idea for me.”

“It wasn't like that,” Draco said, not so much as making an attempt to touch the man beside him, his words the only comfort he could offer and it not the best.

“I have a brother, and a sister?” he asked and Draco had to work his mind through that question before answering it.

“Uh, yes, and half-brother, and half-sister I suppose,” he said, blinking a few times. “Who is your father?” he asked.

“I don't know. I don't even think my mother knew. Some student she went to Hogwarts with obviously, but I have no name on my birth certificate, no surname but my mother's,” he said and Draco swallowed hard.

“Wait, if you are my age, wouldn't we have been in the same class?” Draco asked, thinking of Hogwarts now that it had been mentioned.

“I was actually taught at home, by my mumbee and pop-pop. It's an option all parents have, of course, and they didn't like the idea of sending me off to Hogwarts after the debacle their daughter had caused herself,” he said, almost able to smile at that.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Draco breathed, back to looking away from Conner, and wishing he had more to drink.

Conner just pressed his lips together in a way that showed his own discomfort, but turned when he heard someone call down the hall.

“Draco, what's the hold up?” Ron asked, Draco not responding and Connor jumping when Michelangelo popped into view from around the railing of the stairs.

“Hey, what's going on?” he asked, looking to his father and face falling when he saw how distraught he looked, and growing suspicious when he could not recognize the man on the stairs with him. Connor's eyes were a little wide as he looked at Michelangelo, and he was utterly silent, like Draco, only causing Michelangelo to grow more mistrustful.

“Who are you?” he asked. Draco answered.

“This is Connor,” he said, not having looked over at his son yet. Connor felt a little on the spot at the moment, but couldn't take his eyes off of Michelangelo.

“What is he doing here?” Michelangelo asked.

“I work with him,” Draco said, finally slowly looking over at his boy.

“So why are you two sitting over here and looking like you have seen a ghost? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, fine,” Draco said, regaining himself. “Connor was just filling me in on some important details, crucial for work tomorrow and so forth.”

“Well, come on back, everyone is wondering what had become of you,” Michelangelo said, being light again but his eyes revealing more than his tone just how little he bought into Draco's explanation. He disappeared to clearly head back down the hall to the parlor, and Connor looked over to Draco.

“I should go,” he said.

“Would you like to stay for a drink?” Draco offered.

“I couldn't impose,” he said, already standing.

“Nonsense, this is a family and friend event,” Draco said, stomach just a little unsettled when realizing this stranger was family.

“I am hardly either,” Connor said with his thick Scottish accent, flattening his tie in a nervous way.

“Well, I am celebrating a few things today; why not add on to that the realization that I have a stepson?” Draco said, moving so he was between Connor and the door, leaving him no where to go but either upstairs, or around the banister to head down the hall and towards the party.

“This is a little awkward,” Connor argued.

“You're telling me. I have a stepson as old as I am. Surely you need a drink as badly as I do,” Draco said, passing him at that point, confident that he would follow rather than leave. Connor looked around for a moment, seeing the gagged portrait of a woman hanging above them, and the troll-leg umbrella stand, and the silver light-fixtures, and the long green runner that guarded the beautiful hardwood floors, and finally back to Draco. He swallowed hard and nodded. He certainly could use a drink.

Author's Note/Summery:

Short Chapter.

Draco is just SO good with his children. *coughs* He is as unyielding as a house of cards. Poor Ginny is stuck as the enforcer, and as any parenting duo will tell you, that position sucks, especially when you yourself are not even the child's biological parent. Michael likes the ladies, I'm concerned.

Here is something new: Clarissa acting her age? SHOCKER. I guess it is easily forgotten her scene in the end of last fic where she was talking to Ginny and she -for once- didn't chime and flirt, but talked to her face to face, almost like an adult. Clarissa plays it up for her father, remember that.

Michelangelo and Clarissa's conversation was REALLY important. It is a favorite scene of mine and one I had anticipating posting. Clarissa really serves it to Michael and he really does need to hear it, in particular from her. What she says is true, and wise. Hopefully this will mark a turn-around for him, but I'm not making any promises.

Michael's hurt, his sense of loss, his anger as a result, it is painful to me (almost a mother to him really) to see that. He wants so bad to know his mother, but he can't, because she's dead, and that is tearing him apart inside. WE FOUND OUT WHY HE DOESN'T ACCEPT GINNY! Was it the reason you were suspecting? It broke my heart to see him cry.

Kjhsjkfhgd Draco and Ginny flirty-stuff. God I have missed that. A good snogging session is healthy, it can cure cancer, and A.D.D., I swear. Poor Draco getting a drink to the face. Been waiting to post this scene too. People suck; I think that is the message of all my writing. Ginny is there for him though, and he is clearly grateful

Wow Michael is a firecracker, but that man deserved more than a knee to the balls, so I'm proud of the boy's restraint. I told you I couldn't make any promises. Draco isn't mad, no, and I like his explanation as to why. Jo REALLY cheated us when she gave us no indication in the books as to what Draco was going through in his sixth year while his father was in Azkaban. She barely even makes brief mention of it when on the train Draco asks why Slughorn hadn't wanted to meet him. She also jipped us out of any sort of interaction between Tonks and him. That infuriates me most of all. Tonks mentions/acknowledges Draco, what, once, after Draco busts up Harry's face? BULLSHIT! I maintain that Draco and Tonks would have been loving cousins if given the opportunity. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Draco has a wand. Yay! You were all demanding it, now you got it. Look what reviewing does. *coughs*

I <3 Derrick.

Oh-SNAP you say? Who is this Connor you ask? He is exactly who he says he is. He is a favorite new character of mine. Fun times ahead. YAR!

Review now or not smutty fun for you in the next chapter!

eHe

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Fallen Angel

Chapter 10

Walking down the streets of busy Muggle London with a hangover was not pleasant at any time of day, but at five-thirty it was just obscenely early on top of irritating. There were just enough people out on the street -clearly too on their way to work- to annoy Draco and cause him to hate people so early at the start of his day. The refuge Diagon Alley offered was welcomingly received as Draco pulled his new wand, rapped the correct bricks in a well practiced fashion he had never forgotten, and entered through the shifting archway. Draco loved his new wand, even if any magic above the level he just displayed would wind up landing him a fine and eventual possible confiscation of his newly acquired wand. Just the hum of it in his pocket, the familiar weight, the comforting companionship of it, was more than enough for him at the moment. It felt like his arm had been incomplete until now.

“Morning, Draco,” Oliver greeted as he stood atop the few stairs leading to the library. He had a large ring of heavy keys, and was clearly just arriving himself as Draco approached.

“Morning,” he responded, walking with his cane still but trying to suppress his limp, so it was subtle rather than heavy. He hated when people asked about it, and if it seemed obvious enough that he was trying to hide it, most didn't inquire. “Diagon Alley isn't exactly hopping at this time of day, is it?” he commented, already having passed countless businesses and venders still dark with slumber.

“A majority of shop owners live above their businesses, so they don't have to even get up until minutes before opening if they desire. That also means there isn't a whole lot of foot-traffic until pedestrians start streaming in at some point after six,” he explained, using now his fifth key since Draco had joined him, tackling yet another lock and warding spell. Draco was sure all this security was not necessary, but then again, what did he know? The library could have a collection of “dangerous” texts or valuable editions.

Draco looked past Oliver at that point, to see Conner hurrying from the opposite end of Diagon Alley from which Draco had come. Connor clearly hadn't seen Draco yet, him hidden from view by Oliver, so he seemed casual enough and confident as he joined them. When Draco revealed himself, however, Connor suddenly stopped and his discomfort exuded heavily, enough to where Oliver noticed.

“Oh, Connor,” he greeted as though surprised. “This is Draco Malfoy, I owled you about him last night but I didn't get a reply. He was just hired and will be working with us,” he explained what he had clearly written to the other man, obviously thinking that the lack of reply meant he hadn't gotten it at all.

“Yeah, we actually met last night,” Connor said, looking down somewhat.

“Connor stopped by and shared a drink with me last night,” Draco said quite conversationally, in no way eluding to any anxiety on his part. Oliver noticed Draco's comfort in contrast to Connors lack-there-of, and questioned it.

Connor just tilted his head to the side, but Draco answered.

“Nothing's the matter, right Connor?” he said oh-so-casually, the man looking over at him and seemingly gaining confidence from Draco's easy savvy.

“Yeah, nothing's wrong, just a little tired,” he said, brushing his ringlets out of his eyes in much the same manner Michelangelo did and got Draco to stare for just a minute. Oliver heaved the front door open at that moment, ripping Draco's eyes away, saving him from having to respond while so astonished.

Oliver led the way and Connor and Draco entered shoulder to shoulder, Draco taking the opportunity to speak to Connor in hushed tones.

“You are sort of defeating the purpose of you coming to see me last night if you are just going to act uncomfortable and conspicuous anyways,” he said, Connor looking over at him. “Relax, we don't have to say anything to Oliver, so lets just act like new acquaintances -since that is what we are- and go about trying to enjoy our day,” he suggested, Connor nodding.

“Nice tie,” he remarked, Draco smirking. It was a handsome tie, even if Connor was making fun of him for it.

“Alright,” Oliver said upon turning once in the center of the main library hall. “Draco, your job's title is receptionist, meaning you would be the one that receives and sends all owls, checks in and out books, and works the floors while handling the patrons,” he explained, falling into full swing very quickly, there only being twenty minutes before they were officially open.

“I believe I can handle that,” Draco said quite confidently, though surprised he would be given a job so forefront. He was used to be treated like an embarrassment, an inconvenience, tucked away in dark corners and never acknowledged.

“Well, that is just what your title entails. You will also have the task of maintaining the card catalogs, and keeping the main floor uncluttered as people come through,” Oliver explained as he turned to walk, Connor following after and Draco following suit. “With all the disrepair and how far we have fallen behind, however, you will also be expected to help Connor and I in our work of repairing, organizing, and shelving the books since there wont always be patrons in the building for you to occupy yourself with. This will help you, however, learn the layout of the library and where subjects are, so as to be more of a help to the people you will be serving,” Oliver said and Draco wrapped his mind around that.

“So basically I will have your guys' job, and then more,” he said, not making it a question.

Oliver just laughed and nodded.

“It won't be terrible, I promise,” Connor reassured, Draco not exactly complaining but for maybe the fact that he would be carrying two jobs if not more, but only one title, meaning he would only be paid for one job. He felt that kind'a sucked.

“When do I get a pair of snazzy robes? Is there some kind of initiation? I hope drinking games are involved,” Draco drawled, noticing Oliver and Connor's floor length purple robes and feeling rather drab in his black slacks, white dress shirt, and new tie.

“We can have you fitted once Madam Malkin's opens,” Connor said as he ran his hands down the front of his silky robes. “I think they are rather hideous if you ask me,” he said, Oliver laughing.

“Oh, good. Here I thought it was only me,” Draco said, eyeing the purple robes with weary eyes now.

“Our library's namesake loved purple, so guess what color we get to wear?” Oliver said with a roll of his eyes.

“What a proofer,” Draco scoffed, crossing his arms.

“Right then, first,” Oliver said now that they had reached the office in the back, “You punch in back here every morning, and for lunch and breaks. One forty minute lunch, two fifteen minute breaks. Mr. Crudelis watches the cards closely, so don't give him an excuse to fire you, Draco, punch every time and be honest if you are late. He will like you more for your honesty,” Oliver warned. Draco saluted him rather mockingly as Oliver keyed in, smiling. “Let's see,” he said, looking around the room. “This is Mr. Crudelis' office, don't touch anything, he is highly organized despite the clutter. Punch in over there and leave,” he warned, Connor already demonstrating, Oliver heading to Mr. Crudelis' desk, opening a drawer, and grabbing a quill off the top at the same time. “Your punch card…” he said, trailing off, writing on a small piece of manila card. He scratched at it for a moment before handing it to Draco. “Sign it at the bottom, on the back there, and you are officially hired. Once punched you will be on the payroll,” he said, Draco smiling despite himself and taking the card and quill, leaning over the front of the desk to sign his name in his elegant script.

“Thank god you have good handwriting, our last receptionist wrote in goblin, I swear,” Connor said, looking over Draco's shoulder to see Draco's perfectly calligraphy signature with just the right amount of accents and loops to look very aesthetically appealing and classy.

“I aim to please,” he drawled, picking up his card and waving it to encourage the ink to dry without a smudge. “I punch there?” he asked, already moving over to the old wooden box with the lever on the side and the slot in the top to insert his card.

“Yup.”

Draco took a deep breath, inserted his card, and pulled the lever, hearing the gears turn and the clunk of the stamp. Draco felt a flutter of excitement in his chest as he released the lever and let it tilt back into place, then removing his newly punched card.

“Congrats, Draco,” Connor praised, Oliver smiling but then looking around.

“Alright, card goes there,” he said, pointing to the pocket on the wall where Draco deposited it promptly at the heist in Oliver's voice. He supposed they were dawdling. “Right, well, I suppose a quick tour of the library is in order. Connor can take you to Malkin's then while I hold down the fort here. I owled ahead yesterday so she knows you are coming. A fitting will be all that your visit entails, you should have your robes by lunch,” Oliver explained, leading the way back out of the office which he closed and locked behind them. It was obvious that Oliver was the superior among them, and still it made Draco smile a little, and at how serious Oliver took it. The way he explained everything, he wouldn't be surprised if Oliver pulled out a board next with the library floor plans on it and started marking off locations as though it were some kind of Quidditch strategy. Draco had heard Oliver address the Gryffindor Quidditch Team in much the same fashion he was now, and he had to ask.

“So, how was it you became a Librarian?”

Connor stifled a laugh behind his hand and pretended to cough. Draco could pry if he needed to, but he figured the conversation would be part of their bonding. That and he was lazy and had a hangover.

“After Hogwarts I of course tried out and applied to the middle division Quidditch teams, hoping to qualify so as to then be noticed by the pro-circuit. I did, and I was,” he said, a smile clearly in place as he spoke even though Draco couldn't see it as he followed behind. “I was picked up by the Puddlemere United at first and was on their reserve team, but was then traded off to Montrose Magpies,”

“You traded up to play for Scotland?” Draco interrupted.

“Scottish pride will-out,” Connor, a fellow Scotsman, teased and Oliver pressed on.

“I was an alternate for a season but eventually got pitch-time due to the inevitable injury of their starting Keeper. I played for about a year and in that time I shattered by arm twice. I took off a season with the return of our Keeper, but then was thrown back in the following season to play for three straight, which coincidentally were three consecutive years we wound up at the Quidditch World Cup,” he said, his chest starting to swell out.

“Oh, here he goes again,” Connor said with an airy sigh, causing Draco to look to him, then back to Oliver who had just turned.

“There I was; the score was tied at eighty. It was our third consecutive visit to the World Cup but we hadn't yet won it. The pressure was on as the game was already in its sixth hour,” he detailed, leaning in, hands up as though using them to direct the recollection. “Chaplin Coram of the Heidelberg Harriers, had just successfully executed a reverse pass and was barreling towards me with every intent on making a goal. I had him marked,” he said, using his hands to demonstrate, Connor getting Draco's attention my opening and closing his hands in a yapping motion from outside of Oliver's range of sight. Draco stifled a snicker but was snapped back to attention by Oliver pounding his fist into his palm and yelling “BAM!” Draco flinched.

“So down I went, the Bludger streaking away, whistles going off, my coach tossing out penalty flairs left and right. I missed it all having been unconscious and plummeting,” he said, a smile still on his face like he had been having the time of his life as he fell helplessly to his most certain death. Draco couldn't exactly share in Oliver's enthusiasm, but nodded encouragingly for the man to continue. “I woke up in St. Mangoes two weeks later and was told it was unwise for me to play again. I didn't listen -my team having captured victory that night thanks to our Seeker- so I went right back to off-season training and conditioning. In a pre-season game, a charity event if I recall correctly, I got hit again in the head by a Bludger bat, and was hospitalized again, even though I had not been hit that heard. I had been badly dazed and it worried my captain and my coach. The Healers told me I would die if I got hit in the head again, no ifs ands buts or possiblys. I had to retire, and that was really hard to do. I got to go out on top, as a World Champion Team, however, top ranked,” he said with his chest puffed out so far he was certainly in danger of just toppling over backwards at any moment.

“Wow,” Draco said blandly. “You still didn't tell me how you ended up a librarian,” he said just as dryly and Connor didn't try to hide his snort of a laugh this time. It was obvious he had dealt with Oliver's nostalgia for some time now and found Draco's dry sarcasm refreshing. Draco was used to this kind of reminiscence because Ginny had played Quidditch for five years with the Holyhead Harpies before retiring, and she could talk on and on about the game for hours if he let her. Draco rarely let her.

“Being the top Keeper in the world, a Cup holder, an internationally recognized player, and quite good looking if I do say so myself,” he said, holding his chin in his fingers for a second as though showcasing that point, “It was difficult to find work after that. Quidditch pays well, but not that well, and sitting at home even if I had the comfortable means was maddening when you are used to soaring through the skies at three-hundred miles and hour and so forth.”

“So naturally a librarian was the next closest thing you could find to match the excitement of the Quidditch Pitch,” Draco retorted sardonically. Connor was liking Draco more and more by the minute as he was practically stuffing his robes in his mouth so as to not laugh openly at Oliver.

“No, but this was the only job I could get where I wasn't swarmed. Businesses were always star-struck so they would hire me, but I quickly found myself with a pink-slip after the businesses lost money due to my distraction of its patrons. It was just a mess. Here, however, I had sanctuary. The people who come in here can't talk, can't bring in cameras. Soon people forgot about me as the new wave of Quidditch Stars took my vacant place, and I could work here in peace. I like it now,” he explained, Draco nodding. “It was why I fought so hard for you to be hired,” he then admitted and Draco looked at him. “I figured you, of anyone, could use a bit of sanctuary,” he said and Draco looked at him, again getting that unmistakable vibe that Oliver was that nice of a person, but now also that he was apparently someone who read the papers. “I hear you are about to be a father…again,” Oliver enquired, still standing there in puffy-chest-fashion.

Draco felt his own chest kind'a puff out like Oliver's had at mention of his Quidditch accomplishments, and had to laugh at himself.

“Yeah,” he admitted, shoulders now squared.

“Congrats to you on that, sincerely. I heard about it after I talked to you yesterday. I have to admit, I was a little surprised. If anyone back in the days of Hogwarts had told me Ginny Weasley would end up with you, even though I didn't know you by more than just reputation and Quidditch, I would have called them mad.”

“Yeah, a lot of people feel that way. Actually, Ginny and I are a little surprised by it sometimes ourselves. We sometimes wake up beside each other and have a startled `what the fuck?' moment, like we had believed it all a dream. We aren't exactly a match made in heaven, but we can't seem to live without each other.”

“I think couples that mesh too easily at first have no staying power. A little conflict and eventual compromise bonds two people in a relationship together,” Connor said and Draco smiled at him.

“Well said, Connor,” Oliver praised, apparently agreeing.

“Well, Ginny and I certainly do clash, like orange and blue.”

“So long as your compromise is just as strong,” Oliver teased and Draco did swallow rather guiltily at that, knowing he was being unrelentingly stubborn on some things that were really starting to get Ginny grumpy with him.

--------------

“Thanks for being so cool about everything this morning,” Connor said some time later, Draco standing in Madam Malkin's shop, upon a stool with his arms out, his robes extending far beyond his hands and down about halfway on the stool. The shoulders hung past his, and he could wrap them around himself at least twice. Madam Malkin had her work cut out for her today, literally.

“Don't mention it, and I mean that,” Draco said dryly, but not harshly.

“You really okay as this with everything?” Connor asked a little insecurely.

“I can't imagine what I could be terribly upset about. I did nothing wrong, you did nothing wrong, there is nothing to get so embarrassed over,” he said as the free-floating tape measure wound around his throat to measure the collar for him.

“Embarrassing that your step-son is older than you,” Connor moped.

“Barely, and again, it isn't like either of us did anything. You couldn't help when you were conceived any more than I could in regards to myself. You were -through no fault of your own- no part of your mother's life, and I was for a brief time. It has been my understanding for some years now that Christina had a life outside of me, and that I was just one part of it.”

“That has to be hard,” he said, knowing the pain he himself felt due to his mother's abandonment when he was an infant and unable to even remember her, or experience it. He couldn't imagine what it would have been like to be in Draco's shoes.

“It was…it is. I tried very hard, did the best I could in the situation I was in and my circumstances, and too much was still in the way. I really can't blame her for leaving, not when she and I could barely even reach through my cell bars to simply touch hands, stuck with two children she hadn't planned on having in the first place, dealing with their illnesses and crying. I think it all just overwhelmed her.”

“Now I think you are just making excuses for her,” Connor said a little accusatory then, Draco blinking at him. “She just lacked a mother-gene. She just didn't have that instinct in her that drives mothers to rear and protect their young. Maybe me saying that is in-of-itself an excuse, but I don't mean to make it out to be anything less than a serious flaw and shortcoming on her part.”

“For someone who didn't know her, you certainly seem to hate her a great deal,” Draco said sadly.

“I'm sure you saw something in her that I never will get the chance to, and maybe despite her lack of a mothering nature she was an otherwise decent or even redeemable person, but I somehow just can't believe that. I barely know you, I'll admit, but I couldn't imagine discarding you like she did. She left me, she left you, she ditched more than one family…there seems to be a pattern here, with one common denominator, that being her. I think there was something wrong with her, rather than something different wrong with each of us,” he argued and Draco frowned his brow but said nothing, Madam Malkin returning to deal with Draco's over-sized robes and neither chap willing to continue on with their conversation with her there.

“Come back for them at about lunch time, I should have them fitted. Honestly, Draco, I thought you promised me you were going to put on some weight last fitting? Your waist is as tiny as ever,” she fussed.

“I am working on it,” he assured, limping away with Connor, Malkin tossing her tape measure over her head to hang from her neck as she sighed.

“You are rather skinny.”

“You are rather pierced about the face,” Draco retorted.

“I'm individualistic.”

“I'm chic,” Draco replied as dry as ever while trying his best not to limp like he had a wooden-leg. He liked this, having Connor and Oliver to talk to, work with. He still wasn't one who had friends (Ron and Remus didn't count, they were simply family, or maybe he made exceptions for people with letter R names or something,) but it was nice to have someone else to talk to other than them, or Ginny, or his therapist. He had been rather close with Mr. Coderdale too, so a nice strong work relationship was something he had been lacking for a while and really missed.

------------------

Ginny lounged on the couch in the sitting room, taking a break from having tackled a bit of the nursery. The floors in there had been finished, but the walls were still bare. To try and encourage Draco into coming to some kind of compromise soon about what to do about the color-scheme, she had started taping off the window frames and borders, and laying down plastic. If the room was primed for painting, with the baby certainly well on its way, Draco would have little choice but to meet some negotiation with her. She wasn't at work, taking the day off to give her office a chance to deal with the idea that she is pregnant and had been for months without them realizing, before going back. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. Maybe she just would never go back. Sounded like a plan, but not a good one for a brave Gryffindor.

She found herself not alone at this time, however, a rare visitor having appeared unannounced.

“You shouldn't work so hard,” Harry warned as Ginny kicked her shoes off with the use of only her toes, leaning back into the arm of the couch with a groan.

“I'm pregnant, not enfeeble. Honestly, I have to remind Draco of that enough, I don't want to have to do the same with you. I can't imagine Hermione putting up with it much either,” she scoffed.

“You know I worry.”

“You have enough of your own business to worry about,” she brushed off, not being mean, but being dismissive. Since Harry and Hermione came out as a couple, Ginny and Harry had actually managed to reconcile considerably. Just this last Christmas they were barking at each other, getting in rows, thinking the worst of one another. Now they were rather comfortable, like they were before they dated in Hogwarts, just hanging out in the Gryffindor common room, chatting by the fire, surrounded then by friends. There was no one else with them now, but the effect was much the same with the level of ease despite Harry's nagging.

“Well, I guess my problems are why I am here,” he sighed, sitting down in Draco's chair, Ginny eyeing him and wondering if it were wise. Draco didn't like any buttocks but his own in that chair -his actual words- and the boy-who-lived was most certainly and undoubtedly barred.

“You and `Mione are not having problems, are you?” she asked, not having meant to imply that they had with her first comment, but Harry certainly creating some concern within her by his reaction.

“No, no, I don't mean…” Harry said as he ruffled his shaggy hair. “I don't mean I have `problems' I mean, responsibilities that seem rather problematic in their sheer magnitude.”

“You are getting new-daddy jitters. Most men do. A woman is a mother when she conceives, and man is a father when he sees his baby. You will feel so much better in a week or two,” she comforted, knowing Draco was feeling much the same nervousness, even if he did not voice it.

“I'm just…scared,” he admitted, such an admission something only years of therapy would allow him to do.

“There is nothing to be scared about,” Ginny argued, trying to be reassuring in her utter affirmativeness.

“Hermione and I getting married, and having a baby all at once…”

“You didn't have to ask her to marry you.”

“I couldn't not marry her,” he argued.

“Dre and I are not getting married,” she said in an almost challenging way and Harry sighed and stood up, pushing his glasses up with a single finger as he did so.

“Being married again…it is a little daunting given what-”

“What happened last time,” Ginny finished for him. “Harry, honestly, things will not go that way, you and Hermione are great together, you both want this, and you are both so mature and ready.”

“I keep thinking off all that went wrong between you and me…”

“It was a rough time for everyone in general, Harry. That time has past. You are better adjusted now, and not drinking like you were.”

Ginny watched Harry pace around, looking clearly distraught. She marked him with her eyes, her concern only intensifying with every pass. She envied Draco at the moment for being able to just know what was wrong and knowing the truth. There was no dancing around an issue with him, which actually was really nice, though a little annoying at times she had to admit.

Harry finally settled on the coffee table near her and let his face fall into his hands. When he spoke his words were mildly muffled by his palms.

“I just can't help but think…would things have been different if we…” he paused as he pulled his hands away to dare a glance at Ginny, “hadn't lost the baby?”

“Oh Harry, don't do this, don't do this right now,” she said, placing her face in her own hands at that point, sitting up some. She didn't want this, she didn't need this, not now.

“I know, I know. We never talk about it. It is a terrible thing to think about when I am about to marry someone else, but I just keep thinking about you. Things were rocky, but when you got pregnant everything seemed so wonderful for a short time, wonderful like it is for Hermione and me at the moment. Then…”

“Harry, the miscarriage did not end our marriage, and a baby wouldn't have saved it either. I won't say it was for the best, because that is a terrible thing to say about the loss, but bringing a baby into our lives wouldn't have made everything better, and it wouldn't have been fair to him…”

Harry looked like he was ready to sob.

“Harry, listen to me,” Ginny said, pulling herself up off the couch to move over to her once-husband. “Nothing is going to happen to your baby, and nothing is going to get in the way of your marriage with Hermione but for maybe your own fears,” she said firmly, holding Harry by the shoulders and giving them a strong shaking.

“I worry about you,” Harry admitted, Ginny's stomach flip-flopping then.

“I have made it this far without incident,” she said, though his fear was something she herself did share somewhat. She had lost a baby years ago, and it had brought an end to her marriage. The idea of losing another, and what that would quite possibly do to her relationship with Draco was one that weighed on her mind heavily more times than she liked to admit, even to herself. All she could do to reassure herself was that her relationship with Draco -though difficult- was more stable than hers had been with Harry. It hardly compensated for the fact that her “high-risk” pregnancy had about a thirty percent chance of aborting on its own, even without taking into account her past experience.

“You haven't told him about that, have you?” Harry asked, almost accused.

“Draco and I each have painful aspects of our pasts that we do not really share,” she said after a long pause, in a very dismissive tone.

“He doesn't pry?”

“No, he has learned not to.”

“It's not good that you are keeping this from him, Ginny. I can tell this is something that is very taxing on you, and you should not keep that to yourself.”

“Have you talked to Hermione about your worries?” Ginny snapped. Harry looked away. Ginny sighed, knowing she shouldn't make Harry feel bad so she would feel better, that was something Draco did, and it seemed to be rubbing off on her. “It isn't that I haven't told Draco about what happened because I don't want him close, not at all. I just worry about adding to his already lengthy list of concerns. He worries and worries as it is, knowing that I lost a baby in the past won't ease him any.”

“But it would ease you.”

“I wouldn't do that at the expense of him.”

“A loss with you would leave him devastated, but I think it would hurt him more in that end to learn that you knew something more beforehand that you kept from him. Him knowing would ease you at the very least, and help him prepare, and if everything -pray to heaven- works out alright, then all the worries will be gone.”

“Harry,” Ginny sighed, not wanting to cry at that point and so hugging him as a means of showing comfort, and hiding her face a little. “Don't worry about me.”

“I can't help it. You know I love you,” he sighed into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said, rubbing his back.

---------------------

“I didn't realize twelve-year-olds could grow facial hair,” Christina teased as Draco rubbed at his cheek in a slightly annoyed fashion.

“You know I am not twelve,” he grumbled, willing to give about anything for a nice hot shave at that moment. Two months in Azkaban and all he had been offered to manage his facial hair was a pair of scissors. He had never had a beard before, shaved promptly every morning since it had first started to appear when he was younger, so it was an odd sensation, allowing it to grow out. His stubble was fair, and trimmed as short as he could manage, but it was still obvious that he could use a shave. It certainly helped him look a little bit older, and it somehow managed to hide his thinness some, but still, he hated scruff. He felt so disheveled, so sloppy, so low-class.

“That you certainly are not,” Christina agreed at that point, her eyes always on him.

“When does it start to get warmer?” he asked, hugging his knees and holding is toes.

“We are on an island in the middle of the north sea, babe. It doesn't get warm here.”

“Surely there is a season other than winter.”

“It gets less stormy come summer, but hardly nice enough to claim that it is a different season.”

“I don't think I will be going out to the pit,” he then sighed, shivering quite fiercely at that point.

“What? No, you can't stay in,” she whined, placing her hands on her bars and standing there, giving him her most disappointed face.

“It's just so cold, I feel like death, and going out there with the wind like it is today…it won't do me a bit of good. I can imagine how lovely it is to get sick here.”

“The wind is not bad out there, not in the pit. They cast wards to keep the elements out. It is chilly, but I'll be there to keep you warm, come on,” she pleaded, arguing her case and batting her eyelashes. Draco blushed a little at her last remark, remembering the last time they had gone out into the pit together. It had been their first time to the pit together too, but she had snogged the crap out of him. Draco felt he needed to return the favor should they find themselves out there together, again.

“Well, a little sunlight would probably do me some good,” he said, ruffling at his hair that was now several inches long, and still rather unkempt, but surprisingly white. Draco wanted to see it out in the sun, to see if it could still be considered blond at this point. He hoped so. He didn't want to have white hair.

Christina looked satisfied, and it was only hours later, once noon fell high over the pit, that Draco and Christina were removed from their cells, and marched. Draco had had the pleasure of shifting once already, his next shift was only days away, and he dreaded that, but Christina was a great comfort. She knew so much about werewolves, and she certainly seemed to care a certain amount about him and his well-being that he was confident his next shift would go smoothly.

“You have one hour,” the guard announced, Draco and Christina's chains evaporating away in a cloud of purplish-grey smoke. Draco barely had a moment to appreciate the lack of restraints before Christina had him by the wrist and was practically running off with him. The guard looked after them for a moment before sighing in his glare and shaking his head. He needed to talk to his superior about keeping the two apart. He didn't trust Christina, or the boy's dependence on her.

“Where the bloody-hell are you leading me in such a hurry?” Draco asked, Christina's long legs helping her make quick pace and Draco struggling not to trip on his overly long pants as he tried to keep up.

“I don't want to be bothered by the other inmates, not today,” she explained, Draco knowing exactly where she was taking him, right back to their corner. The tree stood bare, the mud, earth, and snow mound piled higher than last time. It must have been built up from the guards clearing a space in the pit for the inmates.

Draco appreciated how secluded they found themselves at the moment, but then also realized they were totally secluded, and Christina's eyes were on him again. He wasn't sure if he was blushing, or if his cheeks were that pink because of the cold, but he was looking very intently at Christina' s knees as she came up right beside him.

“Someone is suddenly uncomfortable,” she teased, rounding behind Draco to press her body up against his and circle her arms around him. Draco's shoulders hunched. “I promised to keep you warm, didn't I?” she said, hooking her chin over his shoulders then so the side of her face was flush with his. Draco didn't like how much his body seemed to like this.

“It is rather chilly,” he said, as though conversationally.

“But at least it isn't cold,” she retorted, Draco nodding but at a loss of what to say at that point. The last time they had been in this corner they had kissed. A lot. Now Christina was wrapping herself around him, hands on his stomach, breath on his neck. He fought a shiver and tried to play it off as him being cold, but Christina was not fooled.

“You know I like you,” she said, not making that a question, more like an offer, and Draco shifted uncomfortably, almost as though he wanted her to release him. She held tighter. “I like you a lot, and I know you like me,” she said, accusatory, like she dared him to disagree. When her hand slid down his stomach and her fingertips slipped down the front of his trousers, Draco jumped and pulled away, leaving Christina to roll her eyes before he was fully spun around.

“No, no,” he said, struggling to swallow.

“You really plan on staying here as a virgin, Draco?”

“You said there was nothing wrong with being a virgin,” he refuted though couldn't look at her and didn't sound like he held much conviction in that idea either.

“I was just trying to imply how much the fact allured me. The men here will see to it that you are not a virgin for long, and I'm only here for another six months. I'm offering you the chance to have a choice in how you might lose it,” she said, trying to make it sound like some kind of bargain deal. Draco looked at her in horror. He didn't want to lose his virginity to a man, especially none of the men here with their rotten teeth and terrible smell, not by rape. “Come on, we like each other, there is no shame in that,” she said, moving so slowly towards him that Draco had barely registered that she was coming closer until she had reached up and pushed his hair out of his eyes. She leaned in to whisper in his ear, Draco's back up against the snow-mound. “I will be gentle. You will like it, I promise,” she said, Draco shaking. He tried to play that off again as being cold -and that was most certainly true- but Christina could tell he was nervous. She kissed at his neck tenderly and reached down the front of his trousers at the same time, Draco not fighting her, a sharp intake of breath the only sound he made when she firmly grabbed him in her hand. She purred into his ear.

“Mmm, big boy,” she said before her tongue darted out and flicked his earlobe, hand gently squeezing. Draco was shaking now, not even bothering to hide it anymore, and Christina just moved her hand over him, trying to entice some usability out of him. It being cold, and him being so nervous certainly hindered this some, but her hand was warming up considerably, and she could tell he liked her kissing around his neck. Draco's breath quivered some as his body finally responded to her stimulations. Christina was excited too.

“I have wanted this for a while now,” she said into his ear, Draco just swallowing hard at first, her jerking her hand causing him to hiccup slightly and finally respond. It was only one word.

“Please.”

Christina kissed him then, holding onto his shirt as firmly as she was onto him, and turned him around and pushed him down. Draco was a little surprised by this given how tender and gentle she had been up until that point, and he was completely off guard as she straddled him, rubbing herself against him through their clothing and leaning down to kiss him more fiercely. It was a little abrupt. She had been suggesting it, then pumping her hand over him, now she had him under her with his trousers straining over his erection in a most obscene way, and he felt the point of changing his mind was long past now that his body was so clearly eager and ready.

Christina pulled down only the front of Draco's trousers, it cold enough that any more nudity was a very bad idea, and Draco barley had a chance too look down at what she was doing to him before he felt himself entering. If he hadn't been surprised enough already, he certainly was now. With her trousers just pulled down enough to allow access she was already well underway in taking his virginity. Draco bit his bottom lip as he leaned up on his elbows, Christina still coming down to settle on him, eventually just sitting there, straddling his lap, her body having taken him in. Her eyes were closed, like she couldn't be enjoying herself more, and he was left feeling a bit awkward. Was he not a virgin anymore? What did it exactly take, or what point of no return did he have to cross before he couldn't be considered virginal? Christina finally looked down at him and smiled, pleased with herself, pleased with Draco's cooperation, pleased with their situation. Knowing they couldn't be missing for long, however, she knew she couldn't draw this out like she would have preferred.

“You're circumcised,” she commented.

“My father was Jewish,” Draco explained, blushing again.

“I like it,” she admitted, leaning into him so that it was just a whisper near his ear. She grabbed his wrist and listed his arm, positioning his hand up her shirt to hold her breast, as though letting him know it was okay to touch and not just lie there. She knew he wanted to, he had grabbed at her and held her breasts before when they had simply snogged last month. Now she would let him up under her shirt, longing for this for so long.

Christina being on top left her in control, and her to set the rhythm and amount of friction. Draco was very much so a passenger on this trip, and was panting very quickly as she took charge. Christina whispered into his ear now and then, encouraging him to help her by thrusting, telling him to slow down so that he wouldn't come too fast. Draco found that difficult, however, now experiencing this with a woman and wanting to just dive in, wanting to take control and just have at it.

Despite the beautiful woman before him, and all he felt for her, he couldn't help but think of Ginny. He was outdoors, in the cold, like he had been with Ginny that night. He could have made love to her then on the freezing ground but had refrained and lost the opportunity. Now he was in much the same situation, but with Christina. He wanted to be with her…but when he closed his eyes he saw Ginny above him, moaning his name, gripping the front of his shirt tight, having sex with him.

“Oh god,” Christina groaned as Draco thrust upward hard once after she had basically pinned him down so that he couldn't take as much charge. She knew, with his inexperience, that if she allowed him too much control and too quick of movement, he wouldn't last long enough for her to get full satisfaction, and she hadn't gone this long without sex to finally have it and not get all she needed from it. As it was she was concerned about their timeframe. She could tell by the unmistakable look on his face as she moved that Draco was losing it. Knowing she was stripping him of this last innocence, however, was enough to cause her body to clench around his, in time for Draco to tilt his head back and moan, releasing because he couldn't hold it, couldn't stop himself. Christina started moving as quickly as she could, as that final encouragement, her body milking him as she leaned down and bit at his throat and stroked herself, Draco's hands on her breasts causing her to moan further.

Christina finally fell still above him and panted a little as she rested atop of him. He could hardly notice the cold of his back as he lay on the frozen ground, a warm throbbing spreading from his center. Was that it? Had he done it? It certainly had felt great, Christina wasn't laughing at him or anything, but still, a part of him was unsettled. That hadn't taken long. She wasn't complaining at the moment, as she lay there with his hands still holding her breasts, but somehow he felt he had failed in impressing her. She had called him a “big boy” though, that was enough to get Draco a little stoked.

Now that the…act…was over, Draco wasn't sure what to do, but coldness was starting to come back to him, and quickly. The ground was freezing. The first words out of his mouth were a complaint, and somehow that seemed rather childish given what he had just done.

“I'm cold,” he said, Christina chuckling at him. She rolled off just enough for his body to leave hers and she pulled up her trousers and then his quickly enough. She didn't seem bothered by his complaint or even tone, and kissed him, on the cold ground herself at that point. Draco kissed her, kissed her back, kissed her the best he knew how because he wanted to be sure his childish complaint hadn't somehow skewed her perception of him. He was feeling rather vulnerable after the fact, and very exposed.

That was it, he had done it, and it was over. Rather quickly he had gone from “untouched” to “sexually active” and he wasn't sure if the difference he felt was all that good at the moment. Something in the pit of his stomach made him uneasy, and he compensated for that by holding Christina's face and kissing her fiercely.

He didn't regret it, he just wished things could have been different.

“Earth to Draco. Hello.”

Draco blinked a few times.

“I asked you a question and you just dazed out on me. You alright?” Connor asked as they sat in the front of Madam Malkin's robe shop once again, waiting for his robes to be finished. It was lunch time, and Connor and Draco had decided to take it together, to have a chance to talk again without Oliver hovering.

“Sorry, that happens to me sometimes,” Draco said bashfully.

“I shouldn't be concerned, should I?”

Draco just shook his head, not wanting to explain to Connor the symptoms of schizophrenia he seemed to experience.

“So, right, you knew my mother from Azkaban then?” he pressed on, the topic being what had triggered Draco's particular flashback.

“Yes. She was a real…comfort for me, while she was there those eight months.”

“I had wondered for a while, about this. Michelangelo was born outside of Azkaban, how was that kept quiet? My parents knew, so I assumed either my mother or someone from the prison had contacted them, but it is still not known by the public who the mother of your two children is,” Connor said, sipping the straw that stuck out of his large cup.

“Your mother might have contacted them, I don't know, however, she certainly didn't say anything to me about it, so I don't know how they knew. The Ministry knew of course since the conception had taken place in Azkaban. I found myself in a whole lot of trouble when her pregnancy was realized, but they were very concerned with public opinion, and didn't want it being exposed what had happened while under their watchful eye. They are the ones that did the covering up really. I paid a heavy price though.”

“What?” Connor dared to ask. Draco was quiet for a long moment. “I'm sorry, that was a terribly personal and likely painful thing to ask. The question slipped out before I even thought on it, I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me,” he said, suddenly feeling terrible and the look on Draco's face compounding that.

“It's awright. Not a time I enjoy having to relive in memory or thought,” he said, shaking his head. “I was put in the hole for two months.”

“The hole?”

“Solitary confinement of complete sound and light deprivation. If there was ever a time I went complete barmy, it was probably then. Nearly died because I had stopped eating after a while. You can't sense the passing of time in there, you don't realize that skipping your meal means you haven't eaten in days, a week, weeks. I lost all connection with my physical self, lost all connection with time, space, and reality. There was nothing down there from what I understand, but it sure didn't feel like that. If you have ever stared into complete -and I mean complete- darkness for a long time, you start to see things. I could see the universe, the stars swirling and colliding, whispering their secrets to one another. I could hear all the voices of the worlds, feel the movement of the earth as it spun on its axes…I couldn't tell what was up, what was down, or if I was touching anything at all or just floating…” Draco explained softly, Connor just looking at him. “Or that was how it seemed. In reality I was dehydrated, delirious from isolation and starvation, and suffering from a blood infection due to the dampness and filth.”

“Are you serious?”

“Well, I got better, obviously. But I don't think I have been quite…right…since. I have to sleep with a nightlight on, and for a man of thirty-one, that is a really sad state to be in,” he said rather blandly, though the weight of his words there.

“You were there for two months? They didn't check on you or anything?”

Draco shrugged.

“I was finally pulled when I went into cardiac arrest.” Draco was disturbingly apathetic in his telling.

“My god.”

“They, as a means of not taking responsibility for throwing an already sick and already emaciated eighteen-year-old into such a place, chalked it up as a suicide attempt on my part, never left me alone after that again.”

“The guards sound like real bastards.”

“Well, you would be in a bad mood too if you had never done anything wrong yet had to spend every day in Azkaban, wouldn't you think? They were miserable, and they made us inmates miserable in retaliation. I think I bore the brunt of it. Something about me made me so hateable. I think me finding a romance in such a place, a little bit of happiness despite everything, angered them, like I couldn't possibly be suffering enough, and they had to intensify their reprimand and harshness towards me, to compensate.”

“That's terrible.”

“That's life.” Draco shrugged again. “I got to see Michael about three months after he was born, because he was too weak to be removed from the hospital up until then. Christina had visited me prior, however, gave me a photograph of him and the opportunity to impregnate her with Clarissa,” he said, his leg crossed so his ankle was resting on his knee and he was picking at the bottom of his shoe.

“But I thought you hadn't been left alone?”

“I was still allowed visitation, though my privilege of going to the pit was suspended indefinitely. Once it became obvious that Christina was pregnant again, however, I lost the right of visitation. That was devastating. I wasn't allowed to see her, or my baby son. Tried to kill myself, or so they say…I can't remember, and they reinstated my visitation, but with new rules in place, those being that no visitation for any prisoner could be conducted in an open cell. I can say, that didn't make me very popular with the other inmates. I never got a chance to hold Clarissa because I had to remain locked up in my cell during visitations, bars and barriers always between.”

“That is…terrible, just terrible.”

“Azkaban is terrible,” Draco said rather dismissively, picking a pebble out of the bottom of his tread and flicking it.

Connor seemed so put off by Draco's admissions that he almost wanted to end the whole conversation, but couldn't. he never wanted to bring this topic up again, so that meant he needed to ask whatever questions he still had now, while he had this opportunity. He wouldn't put Draco through this sort of interrogation again, it was obvious now why Draco wouldn't like talking about any of this.

“When, when did you marry my mother then?” Connor asked, interested -trying not to sound desperate- in learning about his mother.

“Shit…um, we married in September, before Clarissa was born. Clarissa was born on the 13^th of October.”

“And that happened, while you were in your cell?”

“Yeah, it was just a civil ceremony, legally binding but in no way romantic.”

“And she never told you about me?” Connor asked, though knowing the answer.

“No,” Draco sighed, wondering if things would have been different if she had told him. He certainly would have found Connor at some point before now, contacted him.

“You don't regret it, do you?”

“Marrying her?”

“Well, just getting involved in general I guess. You were considerably younger than her.”

“I was…am…but I do not regret it, no. I love my children, they are my everything. It nearly cost me everything to even have them, and despite how much trouble I found myself in, and despite how hard it is for me still, I wouldn't take any of it back.”

“You…you think she would have?”

“No,” Draco said, looking over at Connor then. “She might not have been a motherly type, but I think she saw the potential in those she brought into this world. Sometimes I think she left to give them a chance, a better life.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Connor asked, sounding a little bitter.

“Sure is,” Draco said simply, ending the conversation there because of his robes resurfacing.

“Here you are, Draco,” Madam Malkin announced as she presented them to Draco, who was standing as she approached.

“Thank you, ma'm,” he said, accepting the purple robes and letting them fall open, looking for the access so as to put it on.

“I would like to start tailoring your clothing out rather than in, my dear,” she said quite heavily, seeing how seriously bunched Draco's shirt was while trying to be stuffed into the narrow waist of his slender trousers. She had fitted those trousers herself, they were a 28 waist with a little room to spare, but the shirt he had obviously gotten elsewhere and it only served to make it painfully obvious how thin he was.

“I am working on it, you have my word,” Draco said but Connor just looked at him. They were on lunch and Draco had had little more than a scone with his coffee.

Well, you look handsome in those,” she said, sweeping at Draco's shoulders to make the robes fall properly, lie flatly, and chase away stray threads. Draco allowed her fussing, and paid her plus a gracious tip for the work she had obviously had to invest in such a short time.

Leaving the shop, Draco knew -being a mind reader- that Connor wanted to delve deeper into details about his mother, and though Draco knew the man was just earnestly curious to know the mother he had never even met, the topic was very wearing on him. Conner was astutely aware of that fact, however, thus why he refrained. That was something Réamann had never excelled at. Both men were incurably curious (as was Draco in all honesty) but Connor at least seemed to understand there was a boundary that shouldn't be crossed when asking personal questions, even if he was, in a legal sense, Draco's son.

Bonding with Connor was precious and all, but Draco was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed. Ten years living a solitary existence had given him a mild case of anxiety when it came to the interactions with others. He enjoyed company, but he could only handle so much, for so long, so often. This was the major contributor as to why he didn't exactly have friends.

What had started off as warm and refreshing in the morning, was already wearing on him by noon. Draco looked forward to getting back to the Library where it was cool, dim, and quiet, where he could be a lone for a while.

-------------------------

“Malfoy,” a stern baritone voice called out, it pounding through the vast hall. Draco came quickly in answer to the call, despite his limp appearing near immediately from the depths of one of the farther corridors. Mr. Crudelis was there in the main vestibule, waiting for him and not looking pleased, not looking friendly, standing in a posture that firmly establish his dominance as fruity Dumbledore looked down from above.

“Yes sir,” Draco answered, ducking his head in something that would be similar to a bow but much more subtle, demonstrating his accepted submission to the man.

“So you are here. I trust you were run through procedure,” Mr. Crudelis barked, looking down his nose at the other much paler man.

“Yes sir, I was-”

“Then it is a mystery to me why you are not at your desk, tending to your duties.”

Draco looked uncertain in how to defend himself against his new employer. He wanted to make a good first impression, and spewing out a string of excuses as to why he was apparently not doing his job didn't seem to be the best way to go about doing that. Draco hadn't had to report to anyone while working at the Ministry when concerning his job, so the idea of having a `boss' was also unfamiliar and a little intimidating. He had worked with Coderdale, and anything short of showing respect and appreciation for the man, Draco had been his own taskmaster.

“Well?” Mr. Crudelis prompted in a very curt tone, expecting some kind of answer and seemingly unimpressed by Draco's opening and closing mouth and uncertain shift.

“That was my doing, sir,” Oliver called, leaping in-between (though not literally) and daring to take the blame as he entered the hall from where Draco had just come, joining them with Connor at his back. “With no one here I asked Draco to help Connor and I in the back. I thought it would be a productive means of familiarizing him with the layout of the library,” he explained so smoothly Draco was impressed.

“He needs to familiarize himself with his job, not be slacking off with you Scotsmen in the back,” the man bellowed, clearly a man who spoke on a level close to shouting at all times. That seemed odd for someone who worked in a library. Maybe he was hard of hearing. People who couldn't hear often times spoke louder.

“He was not slacking,” Oliver said quite coolly. “We were just repairing some texts and discussing preferred means. He has been fixing up an old home, and worked in the Hall of Records, so he has a bit of an expertise in the matter of handling aged material.”

“He cannot do magic,” Mr. Crudelis said quite harshly, Draco just standing quietly amongst them as they spoke as though he weren't there. He was quite used to this treatment and didn't let his loathing show on his face, letting others speak on his behalf and others about him with no protest on his part.

“Actually, he has a wand, and is permitted to do basic magic, like simple charms and minor tasks. Nothing brandishing about it, but-”

“A wand, has the Ministry gone mad?” Mr. Crudelis drawled, his nose pointed so high he would have drowned if it were raining.

“He is a pardoned prisoner, sir. No one can legally prevent his ownership of a wand, and you had declined hiring him initially because you believed him incapable of using magic. Now you seem more displeased than ever to learn that he actually can,” Oliver argued, still so cool, Draco was taking notes. He would have already been implementing insults by now. Then again, Oliver didn't seem to have a temper like he, Draco, did.

“A werewolf allowed a wand, is that where the Ministry is heading these days?” Mr. Crudelis said, finally looking at Draco but Draco looking down. He was familiar with this kind of prejudice, and though a part of him wanted to glare at the man, a majority wanted him to shield his eyes by looking away, so as to not make them a target for some kind of thrown substance or a fist. “Magical creatures of near-human intelligence, and I have hired one. Sometimes I can't explain my charitable nature,” he said, turning slowly while still glaring at Draco, and walked away. “I expect the desk to be manned at all times, gentlemen,” he called back, his voice carrying to them. Connor was glaring in the man's direction and Oliver was preoccupied with Draco, who was staring at his feet.

“That was nasty. I told you, he still has something up his butt sideways over his son-”

“His opinion is rather ubiquitous really,” Draco said with a shrug, not fooling anyone that he wasn't bothered by how Mr. Crudelis had acted. Draco's tone was bland, and his face quite indifferent, but his eyes showed just how affected he was by the man's harshness, how bitter Draco was.

“It's not right,” Connor attempted, speaking now for the first time, it clear he too was rather intimidated their boss. Draco just shook his head and walked away, heading towards his desk that was elbow high in paperwork, odd books, broken quills, and tipped inkwells. He supposed cleaning his area, familiarizing himself with his station, and figuring out what supplies he needed, would be just as productive as working with Oliver and Connor.

“Thank you,” Draco finally said softly, barely looking over his shoulder after Oliver and Connor started to leave. They paused to look back but said nothing. They couldn't really say anything because they weren't sure exactly what he was thanking them for in specific. Maybe it was for treating him like a person. They kind'a had the feeling that Draco didn't get that a lot.

----------------------------

Pulling a double-shift was in no way enjoyable, but Draco felt satisfied in having a job, having a purpose, so it actually only seemed to add to his sense of accomplishment. Working from six in the morning to ten in the evening was vicious, but it wasn't going to be standard, so he could take comfort from that.

First day was a long day, and Draco was sore, exhausted, and limping as he left the library. His purple robes were hung up in the back of the library since he would be traveling through Muggle London to get to and from work. He had his own little cubby, with his own name on it, where he could keep his robes, his cane, his lunch pail. It was that small thing that made him most happy. Sometimes having things that normal people took for granted was the best of all. To not be denied something like a cubby. It was a victorious day.

Leaving Diagon Alley, Draco walked with a clank and a shuffle with each step as his cane led the way, the street unusually quiet, even for it being so late. Draco enjoyed it, but could see the peculiar nature of the situation. He had enough time to dwell on it to be distracted sufficiently and get caught off guard.

Being hit from behind caused him to fall forward, but Draco let go of his cane to catch himself before his face would make contact. Gimpy or not, he had decent reflexes. His back burned, his braid was hanging down into the damp pavement before him, and Draco felt dazed, dazed to an extreme that he could not rationalized but for one scenario: he had been hit by a stunning spell. Being a werewolf, however, it was rather ineffectual, and did little but knock him down, make his limbs tingle as though they had fallen asleep and were now awakening, and left his mind to reel for a second. That second was all it took, however, for the caster to come up on him and kick him in the ribs hard enough to lift him from the ground a bit and roll him over.

Draco hugged his side and wheezed as he rolled, trying to get onto his hands and knees but another kick preventing that as he gasped in pain. Limbs working, however, Draco knew he needed to use them. He understood now why the street was so deserted; he understood now why it had felt so ominous. Some kind of spell, a ward maybe, or a discouraging charm, had obviously been set in place; it was the only explanation why there were no Muggles, no traffic.

The streetlights shone high above the otherwise dark street, and their bubbles of yellow light seemed dim -dimmer than usual- to Draco. That spell had been a powerful one if it had dazed him that much, and though he was recovered, his ribs were screaming at him, preventing him from escaping now that his body was otherwise unhindered.

A boot came swinging into his vision and Draco bared his teeth. Fast reflexes put to good use; Draco grabbed the ankle and gave it a twist, sending his aggressor spinning towards the pavement. Despite the pain he was in, Draco scurried to his feet and took off running, cane in hand but not in use, his desire to get away, and the pain in his sides, overriding the siring agony that was his right hip. Somehow though, his left shoulder was aching, like the running was somehow inflaming that old injury too.

Draco didn't look back when he heard the heavy boots in fast pursuit. He was a fast runner, but he lacked stamina. His lungs were too clouded by years of smoking, his body was too weak and lacking reserve from being so thin, his bones were too weak and sore to take him far. A gated courtyard was within sight, and Draco was desperate to reach it. If he could just get that tall fence between him and his assailant, he was sure he would manage -despite his disabilities- to get away, out of the zone where Muggles were so absent and unaware.

Putting all he had left into getting to the slightly ajar gate, Draco pulled ahead, his pursuer slower, sounding heavier and not in the best shape himself by his breathing and heavy steps. Surely he had realized that another curse or spell would do little good, and surely running compromised too much of his aim, but Draco still feared another curse to the back. If he fell now, let alone was hit again, he knew he wouldn't be getting back up. As it was, he was going to be feeling those boots to the ribs in the morning.

Reaching the gate Draco grabbed onto it and swung himself around to now be behind it and facing the way he had come. The man behind him was hooded, of course, and cloaked. Draco had a mental flash of a Death Eater, and that was enough to still his heart and prevent him from reacting. The man -who hadn't been but feet behind Draco- reached the gate and slammed into it, knocking Draco backwards as he pushed it open. Draco hit the ground hard, landing on his wrist and letting out a cry of pain. In spite of that, however, he had a strong drive to live -it was something that had served him well in the war- and while still on the ground and on his back, Draco lifted his legs to kick the man square in the gut. The man doubled over to hold his stomach as he took a step back, and that was enough for Draco to reach with his foot and push the gate closed. It hit the man, knocking him in the head and backwards, but Draco knew the man would recover quickly enough and burst through again. He needed to latch the gate. He needed to get up to reach the latch. He needed to get up.

Pain an almost overbearing hindrance, Draco rolled up onto his knees, and with his wrist screaming in agony and protest, he leaned up, pushed the gate closed one last time and latched the handle. Taking a deep breath, Draco turned around to sit a few inches from the bars, to catch a breath and try and orient himself. He found that difficult with his long braided ponytail being grabbed and his head being yanked backwards and slammed into the iron bars at that moment.

The man had gotten up, come to the gate, and reached through the black-iron bars to grab Draco as a desperate means of preventing his escape. Draco was pulled backwards again and again, his head being pummeled into the unforgiving bars.

Draco's eyes were streaming with tears from pain and effort as his one wrist gave out on him, and the other struggled to reach his lower back. A second hand reached through the bars and grabbed Draco's chin, so he was held by the face as well as the hair now, and Draco closed his eyes. His right hand finding its mark, he pulled his knife and sliced at the arm that was reached around to hold his face. The man screamed and released him, but yanked Draco's hair hard, causing the newly developed soft spot on his head to press into the bars harder than ever. Draco tried to blindly stab backwards, but the bars and angle prevented any sort of accuracy, and the man was clearly standing well out of rage now that he had been cut once already.

Draco had no choice. Eyesight fading in and out of focus with every swelling throb of his head, he reached backwards and did all he could do to free himself, he cut his hair off. Pulling forward as hard he could he created enough tension to make the cut clean and quick. He fell forward and the man stumbled backwards, both thrown off balance with the loss of their link. Draco was on his face for only a moment, remnants of his once long hair now falling in his face, and he didn't dawdle. He scrambled onto his feet as he reached for his cane, and he ran for it. As much pain as he was in, as many times as he fell from his head spinning, he ran.

-------------------------

Author's Note/Summery:

*Important: Clarissa's birthday has gone from November 13^th to October 13^th. Why you ask? Because I don't know how to frickin' count apparently. Counting to nine is hard okay! I don't think any of you actually remembered that her birthday was in November, or only vaguely at best I'm sure…but just so there isn't any confusion, I'm letting you know that it has changed. EPIC FAIL!

**More Importanter: The Author's Note and Summery is now located in my LiveJournal.

http://draconisangelus.livejournal.com/

the link to the actual entry is here:

http://draconisangelus.livejournal.com/8845.html

Go there to simply read it, even if you don't have a LJ, or want to be my friend, or leave a comment on it. I probably answer some of your questions.

-->

Fallen Angel

Chapter 11

“What happened?” Ginny demanded as she walked briskly down the hallway, a man along side her who had greeted her at the door with no words, no smile. They were in a Muggle hospital, but he was a wizard. He worked there for the Ministry, helping divert magical mishap cases from the common ER and ensuring that magic stay secret from the Muggles there who were treated, and who did the treating.

“I'm not sure, there are Ministry officials in his room now, taking his statements and such, but they wouldn't allow me to eaves drop. I recognized the code he gave for a hurt werewolf, and then saw the name and knew to pull him aside immediately, but I didn't get a chance to talk to him, he was just asking for you. He looked scared shitless,” the man said, practically jogging every other step to keep in-stride with Ginny.

“Is he alright?”

“Banged up pretty bad, came in here looking awful, but he seems more upset than anything,” he said just as the reached the room. Ginny disregarded the man at that point, pushing the door open to barge in without knocking, without seeing if she needed permission. The two wizards in formal Ministry robes turned from their interrogation upon the interruption and glared in Ginny's direction, but that movement was enough to reveal Draco beyond them, sitting on an examining table, in an open-backed hospital gown. He sat there shivering, or shaking, with his bare ankles crossed as he sat hunched shouldered, chin down, tangled and much shorter hair hanging in his face. He had a scuff on his chin and a busted lip. His eye looked like it was bruising, and there was a cast on his left forearm, leaving only his fingers to peek out.

“Draco,” Ginny moaned, rushing over to him and stopping just short of throwing her arms around him. She didn't know how badly he was hurt, but coming just that much closer, she could tell he was in a lot of pain. “What happened?” she asked, ignoring everyone else in the room to fuss over him, grabbing a piece of his chopped hair and forcing it behind his ear, it a habit of hers from when he hid behind his curtain of long white hair.

“Ah, Ms. Weasley, we were told you might come barging in here,” the shorter of the two wizards said rather curtly. “We need to finish getting our statements from Mr. Malfoy here, so if you wouldn't mind waiting outside-”

“Actually, I would mind,” Ginny snapped, standing straight and placing a hand on the top of Draco's head, scratching his scalp just a little to silently comfort him. “Why are you getting statements from him in an interrogative manner? Can't you see he was attacked? I little sympathy is in order I think,” she said, looking at the two men she did not know but not liking them much.

“We cannot discuss an open case with-”

“Open case, so you are investigating this then?”

“We cannot-”

“Cannot tell me? I think you can, you just won't.”

“Ginny, it's awright,” Draco said from beside Ginny, reaching up with his bad arm to use his fingertips to grab Ginny's hand. He was able to get her to step back and look at him, him speaking softly as though to exclude the Ministry Wizards from their conversation even though they would hear. “You shouldn't be in here,” he whispered.

“I had to see you, when I was called and told you were attacked…”

“I'm fine,” he assured, Ginny's voice sounding tearful, giving her a weak smile but his lip bleeding a little from the split at the tension created.

“Oh Draco, you are such a liar,” she sighed, leaning down to try and tuck more of his hair way from his face. Leaning over she could see down his bare back and the bandages wound around his chest, his protruding and curved spine visible as always, only helping in making him look all the more piteous. She didn't let Draco know what she saw, but a sickness settled in her stomach that caused her to swallow thickly.

“Who did this to you?” she asked, Draco sighing because he honestly did not know and had already been unable to answer that question several times that night.

“That is what we are trying to discover, Ms. Weasley, so if you would kindly wait outside so that we may talk with him-”

“He needs medical attention first, not to be bombarded with questions,” she barked.

“He isn't dying, and this matter is pressing.”

“His health is what's pressing your addle pots. Where is the healer, I demand that he come in here at once and-”

“Ms. Weasley, don't make us remove you from the room, we really don't want it to come to that,” the taller of the two wizards said firmly, taking a step forward and parting his robes at his hips to place his hands there, making focal his wand at his belt, carried like a sword. Ginny's eyes of course fell on it before they shot up to meet his.

“How dare you…”

“Ginny,” Draco sighed, making to grab her hand again but her stepping aside to dodge it. “Please, don't make this worse, please? Let them just finish here and we can go home,” he said, looking and sounding so tired.

“But what about the healers, shouldn't you be taken over to St. Mungo's?”

“I would not be admitted. Don't worry, I'm awright,” he said again, snatching her hand that time and kissing the air just above her knuckles since his lip was still bleeding. Ginny looked at him with her heart torn apart, but did as he asked, knowing she was just making things take longer and Draco seriously not needing that.

Ginny sat outside, on one of those terribly uncomfortable plastic chairs, holding her stomach in her vex, knees bouncing, head roaming back and forth down the hallway to her left and right as she waited. Her baby was moving around fretfully, and it was making her even more uncomfortable. Eventually who she was looking for appeared and Ginny got up as fast as she could manage to fall into his arms.

“Ginny…”

“Oh Ron,” she cried, not having allowed herself to cry yet, but now in her brother's arms she felt the tears coming, and she wept.

Harry came around the corner just after Ron, and stood there awkwardly.

“I don't know what happened, no one will tell me anything. He was attacked, that's all I know. Someone hurt him and the Ministry Wizards in there are treating Draco like HE was the one guilty of something…Dr. Valensclaro came, looking like he was pulled straight from bed, and he was admitted into the room, but he hasn't come out, and that was over twenty minutes ago,” she sobbed, Ron rubbing her back, Harry trying to show his silent support by not turning away at Ginny's tears, even with how much it hurt him to have to see them.

“You know the Ministry has a wand up their arse over Draco, and you know they wont investigate this as fairly as they would any other attack of this nature because he is a werewolf,” Ron sighed, wishing he had more optimistic words to assure her with but honesty being what was best at the moment.

“You said Dr. Valensclaro came?” Harry asked, Ginny just nodding. “Why would they call him in?” Harry asked, Ron obviously, but no one in that hall had the answer.

Fifteen minutes of more waiting and even Ron looked ready to beat in the door to get some answers. It went without saying that Ginny was more than a little anxious. She paced, she held her stomach, she sobbed, she fumed. Ron was worried about his sister and had taken up seat while Harry leaned against the wall. It was well past midnight, and all were worn and frazzled, and haggard from worry. Neither Harry nor Ron liked how stressed Ginny seemed. She needed her rest, yet here she was, waiting up for battered boyfriend to be released to her care. Was it any wonder Ginny suffered from migraines and indigestion?

“I can't take this anymore,” Ginny finally announced, unable to wait any longer while no one came in or out of that room. Harry looked ready to stop her from going in, and Ron looked ready to stop Harry from trying. Ron didn't understand how Harry could have been married to Ginny for so long and still feel like he could some how control her. Maybe that was why it had failed as miserably as it had.

Ginny burst in to see Draco no where in sight, the healer Ginny had first met standing there, Dr. Valensclaro with him, both looking rather distraught.

“Where…where is Draco?” Ginny asked, positive she would have seen him removed from the room; she had been stationed outside it for over an hour now.

“He was taken into the next room,” Dr. Valensclaro explained, indicating the door that adjoined the two rooms. Ron and Harry appeared at Ginny's back, looking around, and the weight of the room itself was smothering, even without all those bodies in there vying for space.

“I'm so sorry, my dear,” Dr. Valensclaro sighed, as though he was continuing a thought, possibly the conversation he had been having with the healer when Ginny had burst in. Ginny looked at him because it was obvious the man's words were not intended as any sort of comfort, but as the aperture for more grave news.

“What do you mean?”

“They called me in, the Ministry chaps, and they demanded very clear-cut answers. They wanted a yes or no, and didn't allow me any explanations,” he said, the earnest in his eyes showing how badly he wanted her to understand him, believe him.

“What did you do?” Ginny demanded, automatically aggressive.

“Something terrible,” he sighed, sitting own in the one lone chair in the corner. The healer then jumped in to explain.

“They were demanding all these details about the therapy Draco has been in.”

“They had a warrant, I don't know how they got one so fast,” Dr. Valensclaro said, holding his chin and looking guilt ridden.

“What did you tell them?” Ginny practically shouted at the man.

Valensclaro looked up at her sadly.

“Everything,” he sighed.

“They were asking if Draco had a history of hurting himself, history of playing up injury, acting victimized, or seeking out negative attention,” the healer explained and Ginny felt the color drain out of her face, her anger replaced with a sickening horror, knowing enough of Draco's past to know where this was going.

“They think he did this to himself?” Harry asked, not having seen Draco yet, but sure that couldn't be a perceivable surmise.

“He has a history of hurting himself, and they asked me if he was medicated and I told them I had not subscribed anything yet until I had a chance, an opportunity, to do a proper diagnosis of his schizophrenia…but they took my feelings on the matter and deduced on their own that he must have done this himself.”

“Schizophrenia?” Ginny asked, Ron speaking over her as she stood there, looking white-faced, shocked, and horrified still.

“They can't honestly think he would hurt himself bad enough to land in the hospital like this, and then claim someone else did it.”

“He has done it in the past, tried to cover up his self-inflicted injuries on accidents or others-”

“So you think he did do this to himself?” Ginny yelled.

“Of course I do not. He had never bashed himself about before,” Dr. Valensclaro said defensively, as though insulted by Ginny's accusation. “He would not have broken his own arm, cracked eight of his own ribs, cut off all his own hair, and managed to give himself a concussion. That does not fit with his history. No. He would have cut himself, burned himself, something. He wouldn't have managed these injuries on his own, not even if he had tossed himself down a flight of stairs. There are also finger-shaped bruises on his jaw that clearly couldn't have come from him, if the Ministry is willing to acknowledge the fact.”

“Then why are they so ready to accuse him?” Harry asked, Dr. Valensclaro just looking at him because they all already knew the answer.

“If Draco did this to himself, then there is no need for an investigation,” Ron sighed.

“They…what? No!” Ginny's outrage matching that of everyone else in the room but her the only one mildly surprised it seemed.

“Gin, calm down,” Ron coached, grabbing her shoulders and rubbing them. He knew this wasn't good for her, or the baby, for her to get so worked up. There was a thump from the next room and Harry looked over, but Dr. Valensclaro continued talking.

“I'm sorry my dear, I did not mean to give them ammunition to use against him, I wouldn't do that to him…but they asked me very frank questions, to which I answered honestly, and you know as well as I do, the Ministry knows how to ask questions so as to get the answers they want to hear.”

“Oh god, I can't believe this…what will happen to him?” she sobbed, leaning into her brother's chest.

“He will likely be fined for filing a false claim, possibly fined for coming to a Muggle hospital and making subject to contamination countless innocents, and possibly issued a room in St. Mungo's for a stay.”

“They would commit him?” Ron asked, surprised.

“I know they have wanted to for a while, they had only been lacking a justifiable -even by their standards- reason. They contacted me upon my agreement to council him, asking to be kept informed on his wellbeing. I did no such thing, keeping private matters private, but it seems to have all been in vain in the end.”

Ginny sobbed and there was another thump from the other side of the door.

“I'm going to see what's going on,” Harry announced, everyone in the room deep in their own thoughts, or tears, and so Harry's announcement went unacknowledged.

He used his wand to flick the door open as he stepped in, closing it behind him though his eyes were locked on the scene before him. Draco was on his forearms and knees, coughing, in obvious amounts of pain, his hospital gown tied closed but still gaping open across his back around his shoulders to reveal his bruising and bandages. The two wizards were in there, pointing wands at him, eyes now on Harry, however.

“Please,” Draco wheezed, Harry looking back over at him. Draco looked up at the man he hated so much, held so much against, but turned to now for help because he was helpless on his own. “Please,” he begged, just that simple word, and certainly those tears in his pale eyes, all that was needed to get Harry to stride over to him and stand between Draco and the wand-tips.

“What in the name of Merlin do you think you are doing?” Harry demanded.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but this matter does not concern you. It is business of the Beast Department that needs addressing,” the taller of the two wizards said quite officially.

“Beating up a sick werewolf who was just attacked is a Ministry order?”

“He hurt himself, and this has nothing to do with that,” the shorter now said.

“Then I demand to know on what grounds you are attacking him now.”

“He is to be sterilized, Mr. Potter. It is common procedure, it is painless, if he would but hold still. Even the threat of incarceration for assaulting a Ministry Wizard wasn't enough to get him to cooperate.”

“Sterilized?” Harry gaped, Draco still on the floor to his back, groaning after another cough or two.

“It was made light just the yesterday that he is having a pup with Ms. Weasley, and her condition is quite obvious tonight. He knew damn well that procreation is strictly prohibited. He had evaded sterilization after the birth of his first two pups thanks to that whore of a wife of his, but he will not be excused this time.”

“Step aside, Mr. Potter,” the taller then said, holding his wand higher than before so it was clearly pointed at Harry now. Harry looked at them fiercely, standing between them and Draco, and not about to move willingly.

“You can't do this.”

“Ministry law says we can.”

“This is inhumane!”

“He isn't human.”…“Step aside!” they said.

Harry drew his wand and the two wizards took a step back and adjusted their aim as though ready to duel.

“You can be arrested from drawing on a Ministry-”

“I know the laws, you yellow-bastards, I wrote many of them myself,” Harry snapped. “You drop your wands now or there will be an inquiry in your department the likes of which the Ministry has never seen,” Harry threatened and the two wizards glared, both slowly lowering their wands. Harry waited until they pocketed them and took a step back before he turned his back on them, to squat down beside the nearly nude and crying werewolf.

“Draco,” he whispered.

“Please,” Draco sobbed, pulling at his gown to be more covered, not able to even look at Harry and wishing so much to be more covered at that moment, while he cried.

----------------

Harry agreed to not tell Ginny what happened in that room, not for the sake of Draco wanting to keep it a secret from her, but because he knew Ginny just couldn't bare such news in her condition. She would blame herself, she would be inconsolable, and Draco was already like that enough for them all.

“Here, Draco,” Ginny said, sitting down on the couch beside him with a damp rag in hand. They were back in Grimmauld Place. It was almost two in the morning and Narcissa was up, making strong tea for everyone. Draco was resting as comfortably as possible given his numerous injuries, some newer than the others. He was offered no spells for healing since most would be ineffectual at best given his natural resistance to most magic, and no potions to ease his pain or speed healing since he was still being denied such things. He was bandaged up Muggle style and that was the best any of them could hope for.

“Ugh, it smells terrible,” Draco whined, leaning his head away from the rag.

“Yeah, but it will keep your lip from swelling up like a Puffapod,” she said, pressing it against his face, Draco emitting a hiss but not pulling away either, taking it as much of a man as he could manage. He eventually took the rag from her to hold it there himself while Ginny fussed over the rest of him.

“You cut your hair,” she said, a bowl of hot water there, as she washed him up. He was dirty, like he had been rolling around on the ground. She had a comb, and a wet rag, and was washing what was left of Draco's hair.

“It was cut off my braid or let myself get knocked out, and then where would I be?” he asked through his rag, Ginny's stomach giving a queasy gurgle at the thought of where Draco could have ended up if he hadn't gotten away.

“Needed a haircut anyways in my opinion,” Ron said, rather light-heartedly, trying to keep the mood high, for Ginny, for Draco, for everyone really, including himself.

“Well, you got your wish,” Draco sighed as Ginny combed out his snarls and took in the damage.

“I can trim you up, you will be looking dashing again in no time,” she said, Draco wheezing a laugh at that.

No one wanted to talk about the attack, no one wanted to ask “So do you have any idea who did this?” or “Did you get a look at him?” because obviously, if Draco knew, he would have said something when being accused of doing this to himself. As it was, no one was talking about that either, or what Dr. Valensclaro had said about Draco being schizophrenic, but Draco was aware that they knew, and he felt sick, ashamed, and uncomfortable, which did not bode well as far as keeping the room light.

Narcissa eventually tucked Draco off to bed, and Ginny followed, leaving Ron and Harry to sit in the kitchen, drinking something a little stronger than tea, talking in hushed tones as though the walls had ears.

“They were what?”

“Going to sterilize him, apparently. Beat him up right nice beforehand too, saying he had attacked them. I'm not surprised. If someone was pointing a wand at my family jewels I would throw a kick or two their way too.”

“That's awful, I hadn't known…”

“Neither did I,” Harry not happy with that admission. He had been sure he knew of all the happenings in his Ministry, and with his good friend Remus being a werewolf, had had been certain he would have known of something as terrible as this. “Makes sense now, however, why he tried so hard to cover the pregnancy up. It wasn't for the shame of it because he and Ginny are unwed, and it wasn't because of the publicity…he was scared what the Ministry would do to him once they realized…”

“Merlin's beard,” Ron sighed, rubbing his face. “What are you going to do?”

“Go to the Ministry first thing in the morning, see what else is going on in that Beast Division I don't know about. If this is how they treat Draco, there is no reason to believe they are treating the others any better, even with their personal vendetta against Draco. I'm worried about the Pen now, and will have to establish some kind of investigation, something. This kind of cruelty is what lead the werewolves to side with the Dark Lord in the war, we can't let them feel that would be their only choice again should something terrible arise.”

“I'm with you on that one, mate, I really am…but I think you are fighting an uphill battle,” Ron warned.

“When am I never?” Harry argued and Ron just nodded, that being true.

------------------------

When a man learns he is to be a father, it is a proud time, a time to take delight, a time to worry a bit, a time to look ahead. That was not so for Draco. Learning he was to be a father for the very first time was one of his most terrible memories. He hadn't known until that night why Christina had stopped leaving her cell to go out to the pit or even take showers, and why she sometimes cried at night. He hadn't known why she wouldn't look at him or even face him, or why she leaned over with hunched shoulders as though holding her stomach in her hands.

He learned the reason, the same night the guards did, that terrible night in late July, not long after his eighteenth birthday.

“Come here you licentious bastard!” the guard screamed at him, the shuttering clang of the barred door sliding open being what woke Draco, but the large angry hand around his throat what ripped him from his bed.

“Don't hurt the boy,” another called from outside the cell as Draco was swung around to be thrown into a wall, disoriented and breathing fast. A few punches and numerous kicks connected without any block before Draco fell to a heap on the floor, shielding himself as best he could with his arms and legs, too frightened to cry, too confused to ask questions, too cold to fight back.

“The little bastard will pay for this,” the largest guard in the cell with him cursed, held back by another who seemed to be not concerned with Draco, but the formality of the matter and how it would be dealt with. Christina could be heard screaming from her cell and Draco had thought that to be part of his dreams at first, thus why they hadn't been what woke him. Every night he heard screams, terrible screams, in his memories.

“Stop it! Don't heart him, please, this isn't his fault!” she called, her pleading so uncharacteristic of her, Draco wouldn't have recognized the words as being hers if it weren't for her voice. The voice he knew so well, yet it lacked that air of demand, that presence of authority. She was begging -big, tough, fearless Christina was begging- and Draco was scared.

“I, I don't understand,” he managed as he was grabbed by the shoulder of his burlap shirt and yanked to his feet, Draco attempting to show he meant no protest by walking quite quickly with the man who led him to the entrance of his cell. “I, I don't know what I could have done, but please allow me to explain,” he said, trying to be reasonable, trying to walk despite the pain from his abrupt and brief beating. His hair now just past his shoulders was hanging in his face, but through it he could see the expression the guards bore and he knew there was something terribly wrong. He had been here for almost seven months now, and though he would never dare claim the guards were considerate or kind to him, they had not shown this level of hostility to him once, not ever.

“Explain? By all means, Mr. Malfoy, do explain to us THIS!” the guard leading him grunted as he gave Draco a swing to throw him forward, Draco presented with Christina standing there, her shirt pulled away to reveal something that caused Draco to stare and her to look at him sadly, as though full of shame. She looked away at that point, to hide her face, and the emotion there.

Draco stared at the swollen stomach presented to him but his brain could not make sense of it. A flash of lightning from the storm outside cut through the corridor and Draco did not react. The roll of thunder and the pounding sea roared, but there was silence from all standing there, the crackling of the torches and the breathing of the men thick in Draco's ears.

“I don't understand,” he finally managed, Christina looking up at him finally after shaking her hair away, the guards all grumbling.

“Do not understand, Malfoy? Perhaps I should explain it to you since you cannot seem to grasp it yourself,” the head guard on duty mocked, his tone harsh, and condescending, causing Draco to shake because the Death Eaters had spoken to him much like that, the Dark Lord had taunted him in that way. Draco feared what was to become of him, these men did not seem pleased. “You had sexual relations with a fellow prisoner, but not just any prisoner, but a WOMAN, and how she has been revealed to be with child, YOUR CHILD!” the man bellowed shoving Draco from behind at that point, causing Draco to fall to his knees but catch himself with his hands, looking back at the man over his shoulder as the lightning flared, over and up at Christina as the thunder rolled.

“Pregnant?” he managed, breathless and weak. Christina's face crumbled as she hung her head, her shirt still torn away to reveal what was undeniable, even in the firelight: she was, most defiantly, without a doubt, indeed with child.

“Do you deny having relations with her and being the father?” one guard demanded.

“No…I mean, yes…I mean…I cannot be the father…I…I couldn't be…” he stammered, stuck looking up between the men around him and the woman held there, the pregnant woman.

“We already have a confession out of Ms. McGucken here that she had intercourse with you.”

“No…” he said, looking over at her, then back at the guard. “Well…okay, yes, we did, but it was one time, it was just a brief…I mean…” he swallowed hard, his brain working at a mile a minute though unable to wrap it around what was happening still. He had just been sleeping, this was all just a bad dream, a nightmare he would wake from and cry over and wish he could forget. He would get his cold gruel in the morning, and hear Christina's voice teasing him, and everything would be okay.

“This is an outrage,” one guard said to another.

“We sent her over here to put a stop to this promiscuous nonsense and now look! We are worse off than before, now we have a pregnancy, and a werewolf to blame for it!” the oldest said, many grumbling either in agreement or outrage at having the blame pointed at them.

“She was kept separate, the boy was young and a werewolf, how were we to know her whorish-ways could see past even that?” the head guard on duty from Draco's block bellowed, Draco looking over at Christina, never having heard such things about her before, and she looked at him sadly. For the first time since he had ever laid eyes on her, a look of disgrace hanging heavy in her hooded eyes. There was a sorrow there, like an apology unspoken.

“What's to be done? She cannot have his bastard, the Ministry would not allow it, and it is our necks on the block here with the inquiry to be had!”

“Now, now, we mustn't jump the whistle just yet, we must first establish without a doubt that the boy is the father before we know what actions to take, hmm? We cannot deal with the matter properly if we don't know who must be dealt with.”

“Like there is someone else who could have done it? They are alone here!”

“In cells, kept always separate. The only time they had a union was in the Pit, is that right Ms. McGucken?” the elderly guard asked, Christina saying nothing. “She has access to countless men out there; any number of them could be responsible.”

Draco was looking up at her, not sure which he wanted to be untrue more, that the child was his, or that she was a whore. Either way he was feeling used, violated, and humiliated. Stupid too, he felt so stupid right now.

“Are you saying we are so daft at our post that we cannot notice such happenings-?”

“It is obvious you missed them before or you wouldn't have had to send here over to this block in the first place, and we know she copulated with the boy at least once, so we know it is possible. Draw your wand; see if the boy is the father. If he isn't, then we have less of a mess on our hands than we first feared.”

Draco's face paled as a wand was drawn and pointed at him. He let out a yelp as he was grabbed from behind and stood up, and he struggled as he was held still before the tip.

“Please, I…” he begged, a guard punching him in the gut to silence him and to stop his thrashing. Draco was doubled over for a moment, trying to relearn how to breathe, sagging in the grip of the two men who held him.

“Stop it, leave him alone, I told you what happened already,” Christina shouted at them but they paid her no mind. Draco was yanked upright as he wheezed and he felt a warmth flare through him that was almost refreshing given how cold he had been for such a long time, but it made him feel nauseous; it made him dizzy and weak. That heat left him quickly enough and a light shown through his closed eyelids. It came from over near Christina and he dared a glance.

Christina's belly shone, like it were a lampshade, and she turned her head away for a moment, her hair burning bright in the glow of it. Eventually the light faded to leave three words scrolled across her skin, in glowing letters.

There was a murmur, and Christina's eyes fell to meet Draco's, their greenness not lost to the firelight.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Draco, I had no choice,” she said, voice so distant in his shock. A name was presented, for all to see across her belly, and Draco recognized it as his own, and only had the chance to feel a lump slide from his throat to his stomach before he was jerked forward, thrown against the bars, and struck several times.

“Stop it! Leave him alone; don't do this to him, please!” Christina was screaming at them as she was held back, but Draco's hearing was off, distant, with a ringing taking forefront after he hit his head on the bars.

He felt himself being dragged away, dragged towards the hole, where inmates were left in solitary where there was no light, no sound, no sensation but cold. He wasn't given any sort of explanation, any chance to speak to Christina. He could hear the distant bickering of the guards over what a mess this was and despite everything Draco wanted to know what was to become of his child, but he didn't get the chance. Tumbling down the stairs into something like a dank cellar, Draco righted himself onto his knees quickly, in time to scream at them as the hatch closed.

“Please, don't!” he cried in terror as it slammed shut, thrusting him it to muffled darkness where he was alone…

Draco woke with a gasp, but the jerk that came with his stir ripped a scream from him, waking Ginny too. His ribs hurt so badly, he had hit his casted arm off the bedside table when he had lashed out, and his head spun from sitting up. The aftermath of that wakening was agonizing.

Ginny sat up just as quickly and spun to turn on the lamp, Draco already sobbing quite heavily by the time she had righted herself enough to lean over and hold him

“It's alright Draco, it was only a dream, shh, it's alright,” she comforted as she forced him to rock, not sure if it hurt him to do so but him not protesting as he actually clung to her shoulder. “There-there, you're here, with me now. Whatever you saw, it was the past. I'm here,” she cooed, stroking his hacked hair, holding his shoulders where there were the fewest injuries.

Draco cried, that memory -the memory of the hole- being one he could not stomach. He hated that he was crying, really crying with tears, and a runny nose, and loud sobs, but he couldn't stop himself. The night's events with the Ministry Wizards had left him so shaken, so raw, that his memories we influenced, and reflected the similarity to what he had already experienced. Learning he was to be a father had never come as welcomingly as it did most any other man. Only nearly dodging sterilization this time, as he had before, Draco was left to cry on Ginny's shoulder, unable to tell her what he saw, her not really wanting to know, only wanting to be a comfort for him.

This wasn't the first time he had woken to tears, but this was the first time he had allowed her to hold him, and Ginny felt that was a wondrous step in the right direction. She only wished he had turned to her sooner.

-----------------------

“How is he doing?” Ron asked as he stretched. He had dozed off on the couch and found he was not alone when he woke. Narcissa was in there with him. Some believed the woman never slept, Ron was one of them.

“He is resting, Ginny is looking after him still,” she said, not mentioning the nightmares, knowing Draco would prefer it.

“What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eye.

“It is quarter past nine,” she answered but preempted Ron's moment of panic by speaking just a touch louder. “I owled your office early this morning, informing them you would be taking a personal day.”

“Wow, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” Ron said, blinking at the crisp woman.

“Would you like some breakfast? The children are not up yet, and Ginny won't touch anything while watching Angel,” Narcissa said, it obvious she was looking for someone to take care of at the moment, needing that to feel accomplished, and productive. Ron hadn't known what a mothering person the woman was until he was invited into Draco's home and properly introduced to the woman. Without frying pans being slammed against his cranium, Ron was able to see that Narcissa was not much different than his own mother, like any mother: doting, caring, and always far too concerned.

“I have a large appetite,” he warned.

“I have the time and resources,” she assured, standing with complete grace and gliding from the room towards the stairs where she cascaded down towards the kitchen.

There was a knock at the front door, and Ron looked around, expecting someone to appear to answer it, but Narcissa didn't come, and no one manifested from thin air. Frank stirred from atop his perch, looking cranky at being woken so early in the morning, and squawked at Ron to answer it.

“Fine, alright,” he muttered as he rolled himself off that couch that was just too small for him. He lumbered out the room, down the hall, and too the door while scratching his scalp and yawning liberally. He ran his hands down the front of his t-shirt and hoped his hair was presentable as he opened the door, not sure who to expect.

“Yes?”

“Is he alright?” Connor asked as he squeezed past Ron to allow himself in, Ron frowning his brow at the man he only barely recognized and hadn't invited in.

“Excuse me but who do you think-?”

“Draco, is he alright? I read it in the paper this morning, it's just terrible that he would toss himself down some stairs like that, the Ministry claiming he hurt himself in Muggle London in hopes of infecting others…I don't want to believe he would do that. Tell me, is he alright? Tell me it isn't true,” he said, Ron closing the door so that no neighbor would be able to possibly overhear, and he sighed.

“Draco did not hurt himself, despite whatever it is the papers are saying. He is alright, sleeping right now, and why are you here?”

“I had to see him.”

“Why? You just work with him, you don't know him, or barely at least,” Ron argued, eyeing the man suspiciously.

“I, I can't really explain, but know I have only his best intentions in mind.”

“Sounds to me that you read the papers and are trying to get close to him. You wouldn't be a snitch would you? A little toad used to get close to him so as to expose him to the media in an unfair light?” Ron accused, advancing on the tall but much thinner man.

“No, no,” Conner attempted to deny, backing up but hitting the banister. He moved around it to be backing down the hall, hands up, clearly frightened of the much larger redhead. “Please, I'm concerned for him, I do not demand to see him or even speak to him, only to know he is alright.”

Ron was making a motion as though he was pushing up invisible sleeves when a voice called down the stairs.

“Crikey, can't anyone get some sleep around here? What the bloody-hell is all the commotion about?” Michelangelo demanded as he walked down the stairs to come upon the two men, Michelangelo clearly having just rolled out of bed by the state of his hair and dress. He stopped to survey the scene below him, try and make sense of what he was seeing, understand what could possibly be the matter.

Ron turned to Conner and gave him a very stern look that quite clearly implied that he should say nothing, and Conner knew then that Michelangelo did not know of the goings-on of last night or what the papers said this morning.

“Hey slugger, it's nothing, just a coworker of your dad's stopped by, nothing to ponder over,” he said, never been a smooth talker.

“Yes, you work with my father, I met you the other night when you came over for a drink. Is my father not at work right now?” Michelangelo asked, slowly coming down the stairs. He had fallen asleep before his father had come home, and having just woken now and noting the time, he assumed he had missed him. He couldn't understand why Connor was there when his father was not.

“He, he…” Connor stammered, looking over to Ron to come up with a cover, a lie, a tale. Connor was no good at lying, and not while looking right at his little brother. He couldn't look at Michelangelo, not directly, and him dodging the boy's glance was making him look shifty, untrustworthy, like he was hiding something, and Michelangelo picked up on that instantly.

“What is going on?”

“Your father called off work sick today, Connor here was just dropping by to see if everything was okay, and it is, so no worries,” Ron assured but Michelangelo was already looking up the stairs, back the way he had come. “Michael, don't go…damn it!” he cursed as he followed after, Michelangelo hurrying up the stairs towards the upper levels where he would find his father. He didn't like this, his father was ill? He was not well after the moon, but he was on the up and up and in seemingly good spirits after getting both a wand and a job. Calling off on his second day was not like him, Michelangelo knew this, and so he hurried up the many stairs, to find out what was wrong.

“Michael, damn it, listen to me,” Ron called after him, keeping his voice down, however, huffing up the stairs at a pace that could not match the slick young Malfoy.

Michelangelo burst onto the top floor and hurried over to his father's door. He had it open and was walking in before Ron's head was even breaking view on the stairs. Panting from his heist, Michelangelo closed the door behind him with a snap, pressing it closed so as trapping his hands behind his back, looking at Ginny who glanced over from the bed. There Draco slept, Ginny sitting up and watching over him. Though he could not see, Michelangelo knew there was something wrong.

“What happened, Ginny?” he asked softly, foregoing his usual curt tones when addressing her, too concerned with his father at the moment as he approached.

“Michael, I hadn't expected you,” Ginny said, leaning over Draco some to tuck his hair behind his ear for him as best she could, as though that would make him more presentable, less of a shock to his son. Michelangelo's eyes fell on his father's battered form, however, and not even Ginny's effort could help console him.

“Who did this?” he demanded, bending over the bed slightly to look over his father, seeing the cast on his forearm up by his face as Draco slept in a fetal position. Michelangelo could see the scuffs on Draco's chin, the cut on the bridge of his nose and lip, the blackened eye and the mangled hair. He could only assume the rest of him looked just as bad under the covers.

“We don't know yet, sweetheart,” she said sadly, looking down at Draco herself and admitting he certainly did look quite piteous, yet somehow peaceful at the same time as he slept. She could only hope he was dreaming, remembering, something more pleasant than before.

“When did this happen? Last night?”

“When he was leaving work, yes. In Muggle London, someone attacked him, but we do not know who. Don't believe what the papers say about-”

“I never do,” Michelangelo snapped, sitting on the edge of the bed like he would compete with Ginny over the right to care for him. He reached down and touched his father's fingers, and Ginny watched him. “I can't believe this has happened again,” he growled, and Ginny blinked at him.

“Again?”

“What, he never told you, did he?” Michelangelo barked, though his voice was low as they spoke over Draco. Somehow he didn't seem surprised by this, by how he rubbed it in Ginny's face.

“Michael, I…”

“Never wondered why he walks with such a limp, did you?” he accused and Ginny fought not to glare at his claim.

“I did not ask. Your father doesn't like prying. He tells me things when he is ready,” she deflected.

“Doesn't feel ready to tell you everything? Makes me wonder what he thinks of you then.”

“Don't-”

“This has happened before, once before, when Dad just got out of Azkaban. Some self-righteous bastards jumped him, beat him real good and left him for dead. Broke him up so bad he was in a wheelchair for eight months. I remember him learning to walk again and how much pain it caused him to just get around the apartment. His hip still causes him a right-bit amount of pain everyday, but he plays it down. I guess you never cared enough to ask,” he said, looking back down at his father.

“Don't you dare imply that I do not care about your father, Michelangelo, when I have been up all night looking after him. I went to him at the hospital because it was ME he called for. I dealt with the Ministry there, I deal with the press and gossip everyday, I nearly gave up any good relations I have with my FAMILY to be with him, so don't you DARE accuse me of not caring,” she snapped, immediately regretting her shortness with the boy, like she was lowering herself to his level by engaging in a fight by taking his bait, rewarding him for antagonizing her, but she had had enough of his tones, his cold glares, his accusations of not caring.

“He went to work everyday despite his pain and even being in a wheelchair, he gave up sleep so that he could provide for us when all he needed was rest, and he sacrificed his very dignity to have a paycheck so that he could keep me and my sister. You have never done anything for me, Ginny, and all I see is more trouble for my father with you as the root. Oh-please-do forgive me for possibly holding that against you just a wee-bit,” he snapped, making it clear he was done talking to her, looking back down at his father and tucking his blankets tight around his thin body.

Ginny felt insulted tears well-up in her eyes but she did not cry. Michelangelo's face so angry, but under that, much like she often saw with Draco, was a helplessness, a sadness there, like he wanted to help but didn't know how, that he wanted to hate, but he didn't know who. She did not take to heart what Michelangelo had said because he was just being honest, and now she felt she might understand better why Michelangelo rejected her as much as he did. Ginny sniffed once as she marveled at what a son Draco had, but was saddened by it at the same time. Draco had been through so much to get to how he was now, and Michelangelo was so young. He seemed far too young to be so bitter. It hurt her to see that in Draco, it pained her to see it in Michelangelo as well.

-----------------------

“We could name him after you?” Ginny offered, Draco putting down his book just to stare at her, long and hard and disbelieving. “It's a nice name, it really grows on you. It's a little odd when you first hear it, but it is charming,” she argued.

“I was named after a constellation of all things, by a very evil wizard of all people, and because of it I was tormented for years. Should we have a son, you would want to name him that?” he asked, propped up in bed with Ginny, baby-name books spread out between them as a means of productive distraction and bonding, something positive to think about so as to not have to deal with the negative, not right away at least. Draco was in a lot of pain, unable to get out of bed, and Ginny needed her rest, so to bed with both of them was Narcissa's decree. It was now Thursday night and twenty-four hours since Draco's attack. They weren't even a week from the latest moon and yet so much had happened.

“I still like it,” she pouted.

“Thanks, Ginevra,” he dismissed, picking up his laid baby-book with his good arm while just scooping with the lame one, and went back to skimming for names that grabbed him.

“You're impossible.”

“I am only mildly picky, all Malfoys are.”

“Mild is putting it mildly,” she scoffed, Draco choosing to ignore that. “Well, how about naming him after a star or constellation at least, sounds amiable, unique,”

“Him, him, him,” Draco grumbled. “What of the little girl I asked for?”

“Hey, it is the man who determines the gender, remember that when we have a boy and you want to be grumpy with me,” she laughed and Draco grumbled.

“No stars.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's silly,” he said in a dismissively snooty tone while reading.

“How did you name Michael and Claire?”

“Very easily,” he said, but without explanation. Ginny snapped her book closed loudly to demonstrate her eagerness to learn more. “I didn't have to lobby with anyone to pick a name, it was up to me, making it very easy,” he then elaborated slightly.

“Your wife didn't have a say?”

“Didn't want a say,” Draco corrected. “She said I could name them as I like, and so I did.”

“Well, then how did you decide on Michelangelo and Clarissa?”

“Michael is named after several people, as is Clarissa.”

“Do tell, I am guessing Michael isn't named after the artist?” Ginny teased.

“No,” Draco said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a fashion that actually reminded Ginny of Harry in many respects. “Clarissa was my little girl, and is named after my mother, and my Grandma Malfoy, Clarence. Means famous, and bright, and Clarissa, sounds like Narcissa…” he explained, Ginny nodding, feeling the name was quite fitting. “Michael is a bit of a combination too, of my uncle Miquel, my mother calling me “angel” and my father given that Michael has by father's name as his middle.”

“I didn't know you had an uncle, he isn't on the Black side I'm guessing, he isn't on the tree downstairs,” she said and Draco shook his head but regretted it as the room spun.

“No, he was a Malfoy.”

“When did he die then?” Ginny asked, knowing Draco was the last of the Malfoys so his uncle was obviously deceased.

“He was my father's twin, actually. Died when they were four,” Draco said rather nonchalantly, Ginny staring.

“I didn't know Lucius was a twin.”

“Neither did I until I was older. My mum told me, explained to me why she hated it over at the manor so much.”

“Why did she?”

“My uncle Miquel died drowning in the lake behind the house. It was one of those tragic fluke things that kind'a warps a family forever. She was so terrified of that lake, I was never allowed near it.”

“That's so sad,” Ginny said, voice falling to be mopey. Draco just reached over with his hand to hold hers against the mattress for reassurance.

“Don't think on it,” he said and Ginny smiled at him warmly, then blinked.

“Wait,”

“Hmm?”

“Your father was a twin,” she said and Draco looked at her.

“Yes, I know that dear, I'm the one that just told you, remember?”

“No, no, I mean, does that mean twins run in your family?” she asked and Draco looked at her, then went nose-deep into his book again. “You stupid prat!” she suddenly scolded. “Oh, you are lucky you are in rough shape, mister, otherwise I would be beating you right now!” she laughed, Draco still hunching his shoulders with the book shielding his face as though expecting a slap or two despite his injury. “You know they run in my family, and you knew they clearly ran in yours, and you didn't think to tell me?” she said, placing her hand on her stomach, hoping they hadn't managed twins, praying they hadn't. She loved children, but two at once, two little “ferret-weasels”, would be a handful to say the least.

“It came with a rather depressing tale I didn't want to share,” he said softly from behind his book, not yet daring to peek out at her.

“You seem unbothered by your uncle's untimely death; I'll admit that it is sad, but-”

“No, I mean a different story,” he sighed, eyes dawning over the top edge of the book, glasses glinting in the fire-light.

“You are just full of depressing stories, Draco,” Ginny sighed, letting the humor drain away from her so she would be prepared to handle this next, new, obviously dismal revelation she would have with Draco. Every day she learned something new about him, and every day it seems to get more and more dreary.

“It's the sad fate that has befallen my life, unfortunately. I have some happy ones to share I suppose, to make up for it,” he offered.

“You shouldn't apologize to me for things you had no control over, Draco, things that aren't fair to you,” she said, leaning into the pillows, holding her stomach, ready for the worst Draco could throw at her.

“You mentally prepped enough yet?” he drawled and Ginny eyed at him crossways, wishing he wouldn't be a tease if this was really going to be as bad as he was making it out to be.

“Ready as ever, luv,” she answered.

“First you have to promise me that you will never repeat this, not to anyone,” he said, Ginny able to pick up on his urgency very easily and knew he wasn't teasing now.

“I promise,” she said, heart a little fluttered, sure that a story starting off like this wasn't one she was going to enjoy, the weight building with each second that dragged by.

Draco sighed.

“I ask that you not tell anyone because, well, my mother doesn't know this, no one in my family knows actually, and I would rather it stay that way,” he said and Ginny nodded, waiting for Draco to explain. “I already have a set of twins,” he said and Ginny looked at Draco, perplexed.

“What?”

“Me, I am already the father of twins,” he said and Ginny's eyes widened.

“You're not telling me Michael and Claire are actually-”

“No,” Draco said, shaking his head.

“Then, who?”

“I didn't know about it right away, I wasn't told,” he started to explain. He stopped, however, and his face got a little stony, but for the crease between his eyes, showing just how broken up he really was. Ginny reached over to hold his hand. “My wife told me, when she found out she was pregnant with Claire,” he said and Ginny looked at him. Draco looked over at her, and nothing was said for a long drawn out moment. Ginny's intake of breath was really loud, and Draco knew she had it figured out.

“Are you telling me Michael is a twin?” she asked, Draco granting her only the barest of nods. “Then what…” she dared to ask but trailed off. Draco hadn't known at first? What did that mean? Did she want to know? It was too late because she had already basically asked.

“My wife hid the fact that she was pregnant for five months, so that was five months she went without Wolfsbane. When she finally was administered it on a regular basis, it was too far into the pregnancy do as much good as it could have. When she gave birth, the first baby born was dead,” Draco explained, looking down at his lap. Ginny's heart broke. “Michael followed after within a few moments, alive, but weak. He was tiny, and extremely underweight. Something like two and a half pounds. He was full to term but he had been the smaller, more dominated of the two twins. He couldn't breath on his own, couldn't even cry. He spent three months in the hospital and barely made it through those first three fulls,” Draco explained and Ginny held his hand tighter. “I was told of Michael's weak health, but not of his dead brother, my wife…” he said, taking a moment to swallow, “Christina didn't want to burden me with such unnecessary worries when I was concerned enough as it was with Michael. She didn't want to compound or confirm any of my fears,” he said.

“I'm so sorry, Draco,” Ginny whispered, holding his good hand tightly in both of hers then. Draco just shook his head.

“I wasn't as crushed by the news as Christina thought I would be, I guess. She told me, and I was shocked, I was sad, but I still had Michael, so I was able to cling to that. He was already out of the hospital by then, and I was able to hold him in my arms, so I was able to deal,” he said and Ginny was waiting for the but. “But,” he said, shaking his head, “I did a really stupid thing that I will always regret.”

“What?” Ginny asked.

“I went to see him,” Draco explained and Ginny blinked.

“The grave?” she asked. Draco shook his head.

“He was not buried.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“I was in a lot of trouble for having a baby…a lot of trouble Ginny,” Draco said, not explaining as to how much. “Christina hid her first pregnancy because she knew the guards would force an abortion on her, but the cost of that was she lost one of the babies, almost both. To save me from the most terrible of punishments, Christina had to make a decision, on her own. She gave our dead son to the Ministry, the Beast Division, to…to study,” he said, looking like he was going to be ill, Ginny looking wide-eyed in horror.

“You can't be serious…”

“They made it clear her options, and there were no good ones. She made the choice without me, and when I learned of it, once I was out of Azkaban, I went to see him, see if I could find him. I don't know why I did it, I was so stupid,” Draco said, sounding angry with himself.

“You wanted to see your son, you don't have to make excuses Draco,” she comforted, trying to fight this awful feeling that was choking at her throat.

“It was such a terrible thing to see…that jar…his body…the…” Draco seemed to choke on his words for a second. “It was a mistake that will never leave me,” Draco admitted, slowly shaking his head, wishing he hadn't due to how much it hurt.

“I'm sorry, Draco,” Ginny said, her voice showing the first signs of tears. She knew she couldn't cry and comfort him at the same time, but maybe they could cry together, maybe that would be a comfort in of itself.

“They called him W.I.A.M.” he said, pronouncing the letters out, “short for `Werewolf Infant, Appellation: Malfoy', which at some point graduated into them calling him William,” he said, almost smiling then but it a sad smile.

“William?”

“You promised you wouldn't tell anyone,” he reminded her and Ginny looked horrified that she was to be held to that still.

“Michael doesn't know?” Draco shook his head. “You never even told your mother?”

“I can't imagine any good coming from it, she would just get upset over something so long past and unchangeable. I rather not spread the dread around, so to speak,” he sighed.

“But Draco, to bear a burden like this alone…That's terrible.”

“I have you now, though,” he said, looking at her in a way that made Ginny want to cater to anything Draco wanted, needed, desired. She grabbed his good hand and held it tight, and Draco smiled at her, letting her in rather than pushing her away, sharing something terrible but gaining something wonderful. He told himself he was doing the right thing, no matter how much it hurt, and he was reassured by the love he found deep in Ginny's soulful brown eyes.

“I like this new openness about you, Draco,” Ginny praised, Draco feeling so rewarded, so appreciated. “It makes me feel so safe, and accepted, like you finally feel I am worthy to be close to you,” she said and Draco's eyes frowned at the realization that Ginny had believed as though he felt her unworthy, untrustworthy, of being close. He had never meant to hurt her like that, but he had been selfish. “It makes me realize that I too have to let you in more,” she said and Draco just shook his head, ready to assure her she needed to do nothing short of what she had already been doing, which had been so much more than him at this point. “No, darling, listen,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I have a tragic story too, one that I should share with you as you have with me,” she said and Draco did not pry, though he caught himself attempting to and had to stop. It wasn't fair of him to look into her and know something she was barely ready to share with him.

Draco gave her hand a squeeze, and Ginny snuggled closer to him, but not too close given how much pain he was in. Just breathing hurt him so. She realized Draco's wife hadn't told him about little William while Michelangelo was so sick and weak because she hadn't wanted to compound his worries, and Ginny knew she was doing the same thing. She knew this wasn't fair, however. Harry had pointed it out to her already, but Draco's bear honesty drove that point home. Keeping pain secret from one another was not the best foundation to start a family on. They needed each other.

“I was married to Harry for five years, five rocky years, but in the months leading up to the divorce we were the happiest we had ever been,” she explained. “You see, we were going to have a baby,” she admitted and Draco blinked at her in the exact same way Ginny had him with his admittance. “Things seemed like they could mend, things seemed like they could get better, but then…then I lost the baby,” she said, a weak and shaky breath escaping her. Draco took to rubbing her arm then because he couldn't hug her. “The healers couldn't give me a real reason why it happened; just that it was a terrible thing to happen to someone as young as me. Harry was devastated at the loss, and I was left feeling as though I were to blame. I know now that he never blamed me, but at the time, because he couldn't bear to even look at me, I had believed him to hate me for it. The marriage dissolved at that point, and the family didn't side with me in the divorce, and I was left feeling SO alone. I had lost my baby, my husband, and my family wouldn't speak to me. The papers were saying all the most terrible things, and I had no where to turn for comfort,” she wept, unable to hold it together any longer and Draco succumbing to his desire and wrapped his good arm around her, his broken lifted to just be up against her, his ribs screaming in agony at holding her against his chest but Draco refusing to let go.

“I am so sorry my love,” he whispered into her hair, where his lips were buried, planting a firm kiss in the roots, her scent filling his sinuses and lungs, her tears dampening his arm. She was so strong, he knew this, but now knowing the things she had faced -the sorts of things that had broken him down- he could appreciate her will, her drive, her bravery and passion that much more. He couldn't think of a stronger woman, a firmer rock for him to cling to.

“I have you now, though,” she said as Draco had just to her, clinging to him at this moment, and he nodded.

“Of course you do, love. Always,” he promised, rocking her slightly, not crying himself, just allowing himself to open a channel between Ginny and him, to allow their pain to flow between them, and their love to seep through and overcome it. Ginny was left there sniffing, Draco rubbing her arm.

“It's okay if you want to cry,” he comforted, knowing Ginny had stopped herself.

“I don't want to cry,” she refuted, though the tears were still audible in her voice.

“Come on, you do. I do. You can cry, then I can cry,” he teased and Ginny managed a weak laugh. They cuddled there for a moment, not crying, and eventually Ginny smiled.

“I still want to name him after you,” she said, Draco's eyes popping open, then ready to make an argument of this again.

Author's Note:

Guess what? IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! Thus the speedy update.

Do I want reviews on this chapter for my birthday? YES!

The Author's note is juicy and fun and found here:

http://draconisangelus.livejournal.com/9222.html

-->

Fallen Angel

Chapter 12

“I was really worried about you,” Clarissa moped in her usual baby voice as she curled up with Draco in bed. Ginny was there, as always, and Draco was awake and rather uppity given all he had been through. Having Clarissa finally in there with him certainly helped, she had spent the night at Nymphadora and Remus' house and hadn't been there to see her father get brought home is such a state.

“You know it takes a lot to take me out,” he assured, holding her chin despite his cast, he still had use of his fingers.

Clarissa just nodded while pouting and clung to her dad's good arm as though to never let go. It was very early and Draco hadn't said anything to anyone, but he planned on going to work that day. Ginny certainly had something to say about that when he eventually climbed out of bed after Clarissa had left them.

“Are you crazy?”

“Don't ever call me crazy,” he snapped venomously.

“Well then stop acting like it and get back in bed this instant,” she snapped back equally, pointing at the mattress firmly.

“I have a job, but not for long if I don't actually show up, Ginny,” he argued, attempting to get his shirt on but stretching and moving his ribs was agony. They were purple and red with bruising. He tried to get the sleeve over his cast but was unable to button the cuff and finding it difficult to work his left hand over the buttons down the front.

“You nearly get killed and now you are going right back?”

“I was attacked in Muggle London, not Diagon Alley, and I won't be traveling through Muggle London, so I can't imagine what the issue could be.”

“Can't imagine…Draco, you have a concussion, you shouldn't be out of bed!”

“I've had worse,” he dismissed, though feeling like each step was a stumble. If he fell over, he wasn't going to be getting back up.

“Draco, don't do this, please…” she said, then using one of Draco's own tactics against him, giving him the biggest saddest eyes she could muster, her voice weak and baby-ish.

“Ginny,” Draco sighed, looking over at her and dropping his tie around his neck to let it hang. “Please, I'm not doing this to be a stubborn pain in the arse…for once. I know my new boss, however, and he is just looking for an excuse to dismiss me. I cannot miss work, he won't have it, I can tell you that much with quite certainty.”

“I'm just so scared that you are just going to die one of these times,” Ginny sobbed and Draco's last defenses crumbled. He sat on the bed and held Ginny's hand, unable to offer a hug.

“I'm not going to die, don't be silly,” he said, trying to be light-hearted but it not terribly appreciated by Ginny. “What I said was true, I have been through worse, and it takes a lot to take me down. The only thing that can keep me down is myself, right? Moving forward is what is best.”

“You are just putting yourself last,” she sobbed and Draco frowned his brow at that.

“You know I am far too self-centered to ever do such a thing.”

“Michael said…”

“Never mind what Michael said,” Draco cut off quite firmly. “Come here,” he then offered, opening his arms and preparing for the pain. Ginny barely leaned, but he was able to put his arms around her, and they sat there in a sort of barely-touching embrace. “I am fine, and I will only get better with time.”

“I know you believe that, but I also know that you don't understand your own limits,” she sobbed.

“Speaking of work,” Draco pressed on, trying to act as though he hadn't heard that. “Shouldn't you be getting ready? You're pregnant, not broken, right?” he asked, that frequent reminder of hers now used against her.

“Oh Draco, not today,” she whined.

“I get the feeling you are avoiding your problems there, by not going, and by me facing things head on you are feeling guilty about it.”

“Draco-”

“I'm not snooping. All that from observation. Am I close?” he asked and Ginny managed a weak laugh.

“Maybe,” she admitted, Draco kissing her forehead and rubbing her back. “But it is different, you are hurt. Sunday you couldn't even get out of bed you were so ill, now with everything that has happened, barely a week later you are worse than ever…you need rest…”

“I will go to work, be home by five, and I will rest up, I promise. We can watch a movie, sing some songs, have some dinner, and live a life the world refuses to accept that we have.”

“Sing songs?”

“If I must, to get a smile on your face again,” he said, rubbing her back one last time while kissing her forehead, then her nose, then her lips.

Draco did not drive to work that day, instead he was able to Floo from his house to a chimney in the Leaky Cauldron, but the spinning and harsh sudden landing did not bode well for Draco's concussion and he had to stumble and sit for a while so as to recover. Ginny was right, he needed rest, but that wasn't an option for him. Sweat on his brow, Draco pressed on, unwilling to succumb to his body's limitation. Walking now, however, with his cane in his good hand, lame one swinging as naturally as he could manage, he made his way to the library as though he were as well as ever.

“Draco, good-lord,” Oliver said while stopping dead in his tracks as Draco walked in, it obvious he hadn't been expected.

“Morning,” he drawled, not tagging “good” onto that, and for good reason. Oliver's look of surprise was only rivaled by Draco's look of pain as he collapsed at his desk. “Would it be too much to ask of you, to fetch my robes from the back for me? I would not typically ask, but now that I'm sitting, it would be such a bother to get back up. I'm comfortable,” he drawled, as though he was just being a sarcastic bastard, hiding the fact that he was really, actually, asking for help. His pride wouldn't have that, just like his body wouldn't have him standing again at the moment, so he was rather stuck.

“Draco, what are you doing here?”

“I work here, or has that changed?” he replied, leaning his cane against his desk but only getting it to stay upright on the third attempt.

“No, I mean, yes you still work here…but Draco, after what happened…”

“And what exactly did happen, do you know? I'm not aware of any paper printing anything short of some tale of my head-first jaunt down a flight of stairs, so do tell me what you believe happened, I could use an update on my gossip,” he drawled again, his temper there but it being somewhat cold.

“I…I heard about that, and it is none of my business. But still, you shouldn't be out of bed regardless of what happened, you look a right bit better than death,” Oliver argued.

“Would Mr. Crudelis appreciate my missing another day of work?” Draco asked. Oliver kept his lips pursed together. “Precisely what I thought. I will be fine. I will sit right here at my desk, like a good little wolfy, and do my job,” Draco said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His new haircut was annoying him. The longest part was up front and cut at an angle to hang in his face which he brushed to the side, while the back was short, not much able to be salvaged after the hack-job he had made of it.

Oliver wanted to argue with Draco further, but knew Draco wouldn't have it, so he fetched him his robes. When he came back to deliver them, however, he found Draco to be not alone.

“Couldn't be bothered to owl in, could you?” Mr. Crudelis scolded as Draco stood before him in an obvious reprimand.

“I was unconscious, sir,” Draco attempted to weakly argue.

“That's no excuse. I give you a job and you take off the very next day? Have you no appreciation?”

“Sir,”

“I suppose since you are a Malfoy, you feel you are entitled to more. Expect special treatment do you? It won't happen, Malfoy. You miss another day like you did yesterday and you can forget coming in again, you got that?” he bellowed and Draco just nodded before looking down. “And put on your robes, this isn't a Muggle business,” the man snapped as he walked away, Draco still in his slacks, dress shirt, and tie.

“Draco…” Oliver said once their boss was out of range, offering the robes to Draco.

“Have you tracked down those volumes on Merfolk yet?” Draco asked, meaning to go straight into work because he knew Oliver was going to attempt in being consoling.

“Draco, don't let-”

“Please, just don't.” Draco said, rather harshly. He was glaring at his desktop, waiting for Oliver to answer him.

“No,” he said and Draco nodded slowly, fetching some parchment and an inkwell. Oliver looked at him for a long moment before leaving him. It was obvious Draco didn't want to talk about it.

------------------

Ginny took a deep breath before Disapparating. She was showered, she was dressed, she was very obviously pregnant. Standing before the mirror, she couldn't help but feel huge, cumbersome, and a little less than glamorous. She had removed all the spells that had hidden her pregnancy up until this point, but that meant most of her clothes didn't fit anymore either. There were some benefits to such depth-creating spells, one being she could still wear her smart looking clothing to work. Now she needed to wear actual maternity clothes that made room for her bump in the material and cut, not by magic black-hole, and it left her feeling big, and fat, and awkward. Ginny Apparated in the Atrium of the Ministry, and hoped to just fall into flow with the steady stream of incoming personnel without notice or pause.

She found success in this, up until the lifts. She needed to get to level six, the Department of Magical Transportation, which was only two floors up, but the lifts were always crowded.

“Morning,”…“Good morning,” the people greeted as they entered the car but upon Ginny's attempt all words failed them and everyone just stared. Ginny tried to ignore this, but just trying to step in got everyone to shuffle backwards some, as though afraid to bump or even touch her. Some people acted as though just bumping a pregnant woman would somehow be detrimental, others acted like it was a highly contagious condition. Many in the lift, however, knew who -or maybe more accurately, what- the father was, and seemed to want to keep their distance as a result. With the press swarming Draco since the full moon being terribly negative, the photo, the news of Ginny's pregnancy, Michelangelo's display on the steps of Gringott, and then the “attack”…Ginny wasn't surprised by the people's reactions, but they still managed to get her down.

“Morning, Ginny,” Neville greeted as he entered the lift last moment, sounding a little winded as though he had jogged, something his bum leg made more awkward.

“Hey Nev,” she greeted back, thankful there was someone on that lift who wasn't treating her like she had the plague.

“I wrote you an owl last night, I wasn't sure if you…”

“Yeah, I got it. I would have written back but it was so late,” she explained and Neville just shook his head to show there was no explanation necessary. He wanted to talk about his concerns over Draco, that being what he had written to her about already, but knew this was not the place.

“How about you and I have lunch?” he asked as they reached level seven.

“That would be nice. You can tell me how Orla is doing,” Ginny said with a smile.

“She is tired, as am I. I try to stay up with the baby as much as possible so she can rest.”

“You love it,” Ginny accused and Neville smiled in an unmistakable way.

“My first little girl,” he beamed and Ginny laughed, level six now being announced over the small speaker, Ginny moving towards the doors.

“Draco wants nothing more than to have a little girl,” she said as she walked backwards.

“I know he does. You two should come over and meet Abigail,” he said, the lifts starting to close.

“I think he would get too excited holding the little girl, you wouldn't get her back,” Ginny laughed, waving goodbye to her good friend.

In high spirits, Ginny walked towards her office. Along the way she crossed paths with all sorts of her co-workers, and the looks on their faces were unmistakable. Ginny tried to cling to that confidence Neville had granted her, but was already tired eyed and defeated as she walked into her office. She closed her door behind her, opened the slot for planes to enter should one show up, and she dropped her bag on the floor with a deep exhale. She had known this would be tough, but why did people have to look at her like that, like a freak? They weren't just thinking “oh-my-god, I hadn't known she was pregnant”, no, they were thinking “Oh-my-god, she is having that werewolf's pup,” and it was obvious. She wasn't a mind reader but such a skill wasn't necessary if one took in the horror and disgust in people's eyes. People didn't typically look like that when presented with a pregnant woman.

Ginny rubbed her forehead and sighed, the baby giving her a firm kick to the kidney.

“Gin, oh-MY-god, I did NOT expect you in today!” her friend said as she walked in without knock, her voice urgent with her excitement.

“Morning, Mandy,” Ginny sighed, rounding her desk to ease herself into the chair. Mandy Brocklehurst was a former Ravenclaw of Draco's year. She and Ginny worked together and she was the closest co-worker Ginny had. She considered the woman a friend, though they rarely did anything with the woman outside of work and lunch. Ginny rarely did anything with anyone outside of work anymore, not since dating Draco, which had led to a certain amount of atomicity towards Draco within the office, like some believed it was because of Draco Ginny did not associate with them or something.

“Okay, spill,” Mandy demanded, snapping her fingers at Ginny while standing before her desk.

“Mandy, really, I have to get to work,” Ginny tried to argue but the look on the other woman's face showed she wasn't about to be dismissed. “Fine,” Ginny sighed.

“You didn't tell me that you are pregnant?”

“Not just you, I didn't tell anyone, so don't feel bad.”

“I will and I do! Come on, of all people to not trust with this?”

“It isn't that I don't trust you, I just kept this quiet from anyone who isn't family.”

“Why?”

“You read the papers?”

“Yes.”

“That's why,” Ginny sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“Oh, you can't let what the papers say get to you.”

“Easy for you to say, you have never had anything good OR bad written about you.”

“I have seen the terrible stuff written about Draco lately,” Mandy admitted, speaking softly, in a more understanding tone, as she reached up onto Ginny's desk and picked up the photograph there where Ginny and Draco were posed, Ginny periodically turning only her head to kiss his cheek and Draco's only reaction while facing forward in a very proper pose was to look sideways at her with only his eyes.

“He's a trooper, I'll give him credit for that,” Ginny said, looking at one of the other photo's she had of him on her desk and smiling. He was sitting on his old couch, in his old living room of his old apartment, with a pair of old jeans with the torn out knees. On his lap was his new guitar, and he was strumming it, Ginny unable to hear the song but could remember it so clearly. She loved it when he sang for her.

“So come on, details!” Mandy pressed, placing the picture frame back down.

“I can't imagine what you would want to know,” Ginny laughed, finding some ease in her friend's acceptance of this, especially after that ride on the lift and the walk down the halls.

“Are you getting married?” she asked.

“No,” Ginny replied flatly.

“Well, when did this happen?” she asked, waving her hands in Ginny's direction so as to indicate Ginny's condition.

“Christmas,” Ginny admitted, placing a hand on her tummy.

“Oh, really? How romantic,” Mandy gushed and Ginny laughed.

“Yeah, the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.”

“You said you only started seeing him a few days before Christmas though,” she inquired and Ginny took a deep breath. “That true, or were you lying?”

“No, it's true,” Ginny said, almost laughing actually, as she shook her head. “He and I got together on that Friday before but didn't get together until the Remembrance Ball on Christmas eve. Then, the next night, well,” Ginny trailed off to shrug, blush, and smile all at once.

“Oh, come on, that is too funny.”

“I fail to see the humor in it.” Ginny said blandly, almost shocked that such a tone had escaped her. That was a reaction Draco would have given.

“Okay, okay, tell me about the kids.”

“I have told you about them before, nothing has changed.”

“Oh yes it has. You have told me about them, but not about how they feel about this baby, come on, spill. I see now why Michael would be so firmly set against you, but how about Claire?”

“She is almost as excited as Draco.”

“So he is excited then?”

“Like a first-year invited to be on the Quidditch team,” Ginny laughed and Mandy joined in. “Goodness it would be nice to see Draco in such a light. You assure me he is some kind of sweetheart, but with nothing positive ever written about him, and my recollection of him from Hogwarts being what it is, I just find it difficult,” she said apologetically and Ginny nodded, understanding what her friend meant.

“I know, I know. I wish there was a way for me to share with the world this happiness I have with him, this wonderful person I see in him.”

“You consider giving an interview?” she asked and Ginny stared. “Don't look at me like that, come on, you haven't though about it? An interview to get your side out,” she said and Ginny shook her head.

“Draco wouldn't like that, even if all intentions were good. He doesn't like the media, because he likes his privacy. Even if something good was written about him, he would still be bothered that they wrote something at all.”

“I think it would be what's best though. They are not going to STOP writing about him, or you, so it isn't like by not giving this interview you are saving him any grief. If something is to be printed one way or another, why not make it positive for once?” she pressed and Ginny actually though on that, not having seen it that way before.

“You think it would help? Seriously?” she asked.

“I can't see how it would hurt. I mean, people will either believe it, or not, but at least the truth would be out there for those who are willing to listen.”

“That is true,” Ginny agreed, thinking on it.

“Come on, imagine it, you and Draco, with the kids, in that old house, some charming candid shots of the family being like any other family, an exclusive interview about how the family dynamic has panned out with you added into the mix, your plans for the future, your feelings on all the bad press.”

“Candid photos? I don't think Draco would agree to that. Interview probably never, photos absolutely never. He hates getting his picture taken.”

“Oh-Merlin, the BABY photos! This interview being exclusive would rake in a whole lot of gold for you and this family, but think about how much exclusives of the baby photos would get you! You know Harry and Hermione are pulling in almost a million for the exclusives on theirs, right?”

Ginny sighed and fussed with her hair.

“Yes, yes, I know. I really don't want to make this about money, people reading the article will just think it is us banking on the publicity and be even less inclined to believe what is written.”

“You know as well as I do that you need the money, and banking or not, you NEED to get your side out there, preferably before the baby comes because you KNOW the types of loons out there,” she said, rather darkly and Ginny sobering up considerably at that point.

“I just want to hide until this all blows over.”

“You think this will EVER blow over?”

“You sound like Draco,” Ginny moped.

“He is a smart man then,” Mandy teased.

“That's all a lot to think about, and something I need to discuss with Draco. Right now I have enough to deal with, like how I'm going to go about submitting my maternity leave,” Ginny said, looking around her desk for a quill.

“You are, what, seven months?”

“Yeah, due September seventeenth.”

“You staying right up until then?”

“That had been my intent until I impulsively revealed I am pregnant in front of a swarm of paparazzi. Now I'm not sure,” she sighed, still thinking about the situation as a whole and it being vast and daunting.

“I think you should take off in August, I mean, no saying when the baby will come, and we all know you could use the rest. You have been running around here like you haven't been pregnant for months.”

“I'm pregnant, not feeble,” Ginny grumbled, tired of having to explain that to people.

“You are creating and supporting LIFE, your body is taxed more than it has even been in its life…and you can't deny your life is one big dollop of stress…rest wouldn't hurt,” Mandy argued.

“If money weren't an issue I would agree with you know, file for leave, and go home right now, take the next two months off…but I can't.”

“A big-fat paycheck from a tabloid would cover your time off nicely me thinks,” Mandy said and Ginny froze for a second, caught up by that.

-------------------

Draco was at his desk when he heard the front doors open. He looked up while removing his glasses, prepared to be helpful and welcoming but caught off guard by who was approaching.

“Hello, Potter. Welcome to Albus Dumbledore Library,” Draco greeted, not standing as Harry approached with a great sense of purpose.

“When do you take your lunch?” he asked, more like demanded.

“Not for another hour,” Draco answered though not sure why he wasn't just telling Harry to fuck off. Wanting to keep his job might have had something to do with it.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Because you aren't right now,” Draco drawled, putting his glasses back on and dipping his quill in his inkwell. He had a lot of paperwork to do and it was obvious Harry wasn't there looking for directory assistance.

“No, I mean, outside of here,” Harry said, pushing his hands through his messy black hair and Draco finally acknowledging the waves of anxiety coming off the man.

“What have you been up to?” Draco asked, about to pry but giving Harry the opportunity to be honest…if he were smart.

“I wanted to know if the name William means anything to you,” he then said and Draco looked at him with wide eyes of surprise.

Draco made a quick excuse for himself and punched for lunch while Harry waited in the main hall. Draco didn't share a word with Harry until they were in a private booth of a secluded restaurant, tucked away in a dark corner, able to speak in confidence.

“What does William mean to you?” Draco demanded then, no pretenses, already looking deep into Harry's mind in search of answers, of truth.

“I went to the Beast Department this morning, intent on seeing exactly what was going on over there, and was met with great resistance. They didn't seem very keen on admitting me.”

“Imagine that,” Draco said, taking a sip of his water.

“I got as far as the Pen before I was stopped, but I was able to proceed with a chaperone which made me think they were hiding something,” he explained, Draco just riveted by all this and about to get snippy if Harry didn't get relevant real fast. “I discovered a whole department dedicated to research I didn't even know existed.”

“I could have told you as much, if your heroism would allow your ego the chance to look into something before diving head first and straight in on your own,” Draco snapped, very aggressive and defensive all at once.

“Draco…”

“So what did you find exactly that has you so waxy-faced and sweaty-palmed?” Draco already knew the answer.

“I saw some terrible things down there…”

“Again, as I could have told you.”

“Why didn't you?”

“What would you have had me do, Harry, go to you and sob about how mean the big-old-Ministry is? Would you have believed me, or would you have thought I was just playing the victim again?” Draco snapped.

“That's not fair.”

“Life isn't fair, Harry, and it's about time you realized that. The Ministry treats me, and every other werewolf, like shit. Sorry I didn't tell you about it, next time I'll leave you a note.”

“So then you know about…”

“William?” Draco interrupted, Harry looking queasy and awkward. “Yes, I know about him. Did you come here to tell me so as to feel like a hero, or make me feel worse? I suppose you could have intended and done both, you have always reveled in my misfortune and misery,” Draco accused.

“I have not!”

“Have too! You banked off my incarceration, you took my woman and treated her like dirt, you lived off my gold, and you took credit for MY good deeds. Upon my release you did all in your power to keep me quiet and your dark manipulative past secret.”

“I tried to keep the press off your back, but that wasn't me trying to hide anything and you know it!” he argued, not sure how to even go about arguing about who's woman Ginny had been at that time, or how he had treated her. That was a secondary argument, just meant to be a jab at Harry, and Harry wouldn't take the bait and have that same old row again, not with the topic of why he came to Draco in the first place so pressing.

“You were hiding your guilt Harry, don't fucking lie to me.”

“Fine! You win Draco, your life sucks more than mine. What's your prize? Rubbing my nose in it until I feel like shit too? Making my life hell? Being unforgiving and unrelenting? What? If it somehow made you happy I would say go for it since I admit I screwed you over, as unintentional as it was…but by the looks of it and that scowl on your painfully thin and bruised face, I would say you are not happy at all, so why don't you cut me some fucking slack!” Harry snapped while Draco glared. Harry took a huge gulp of water and slammed his cup down and Draco's eyes finally fell. Harry was still fuming when Draco murmured something that he hadn't quite caught.

“Excuse me?”

“I'm sorry,” Draco repeated, barely any louder but Harry catching it that time and it startling him. “I guess I haven't been very fair to you,” he admitted, looking sadly at his glass so as to not have to look at Harry.

“Draco, no…I shouldn't have just yelled, I'm sorry…” Harry attempted, rubbing his face in frustration, but Draco glared like he wasn't appreciating Harry's attempt to be more apologetic than him. Harry backed down. “I really did have all the best intentions,” Harry finally said.

“The road to hell is paved in good intentions, as my father always told me.”

“I didn't mean to hurt you with this business; I just thought you hadn't known…”

“I knew,” Draco sighed. “You want to know too.”

“A part of me does, I won't lie…but a larger part of me really doesn't want to know how a son of yours ended up in that department, in that condition.”

“He was still-born, Harry, born just before Michael, his twin. William was what I had to give up so as not to be sterilized that first time I became a father. His mother had made the decision at the time. She knew either situation would be crushing, but the loss of a son with the hope -ability at least- to have another was the lesser of two evils and that was the road she took,” Draco explained. “I was told about it after the fact, and it did hurt, but I was thankful for it, because by then Clarissa was on the way, and I couldn't imagine a life without her.”

“I can't believe the Ministry has such laws. I was there when the Beast Department was reestablished after the war. I wasn't in it first hand, but I was being told of all that was being reformed within the department, told of the cataloging and documenting-”

“You mean tattooing and incarcerating?”

“I didn't know. Remus never told me about being tattooed. The reports I was getting were so detailed and informative…forgive me, but I didn't question them with how spread thin I was over every other department within the Ministry. I was being told the werewolves were being sheltered, offered Wolfsbane, and steps were being taken to prevent the spread of the disease…I couldn't see how that was bad.”

“Well, by sheltered the Ministry really meant kidnapped from their homes and penned in undersized, filthy, prison-like cells. Offered Wolfsbane was their way of saying `forced upon' because as beneficial as it may be, it should still be someone's choice to take it, the stomach-pains it causes with regular use deterrent enough for some of us to feel we are better off without it. And as for `preventing its spread', well, that was them prettying up the fact that they were systematically sterilizing us,” Draco said as he glared at his glass. “Sterilization, abortion, experimentation. Sounds charming, I'm at a loss as to why those were not also included in your reports.”

“Unspeakables work in the department, I hadn't known that. I would have wondered why such security measures were being taken if I had but known.”

“You seem insulted that things in the Ministry were happening without your knowledge, let alone your consent and approval.”

Harry couldn't deny something that was obvious with Draco's ability to read him like a book.

“Why didn't you become Minister of Magic? No one would have run against you, and you would have free-reign of the Ministry like you so obviously want.”

“I was too young. There has never been an eighteen year old Minister and I wanting about to be the first. I needed time to deal with everything that happened with the war, time to grow up, make mistakes, live a little. I was still under unimaginable scrutiny while in the public eye, but at least I wasn't held to such a high responsibility.”

“So what is stopping you now?”

“Don't you know?”

“I'm trying not to pry, it's called being polite.”

“I'm a recovering alcoholic insomniac,” Harry sighed, picking up his water glass again.

“And I'm a relapsing drug-addict paranoid schizophrenic. What's that got to do with anything?”

“You're not trying to change the world,” Harry moped.

“Says who?”

Harry just looked at him.

“Harry, if there is one person I can trust to do the right thing, make that judgment and difficult choice between two evils so as to do the most good, it's you,” Draco said and Harry stared with even wider eyes. “Don't look at me like that.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“Just resented you,” Draco said in a small voice.

“Still?”

“I wasn't lying all those years ago when I said I hated you because you had everything I ever wanted. You think things have changed? We might be older, and I'm a little crazier, but still, our situations are the same other than I have Ginny now. You are the Golden-boy, and I am the son of a Death Eater.”

“I'm sorry that you have had to pay for that for so long. I really should have owned up and taken care of you.”

“You didn't owe it to me to save me, Harry. I went into that situation expecting to die. It was all just bad planning on my part that wound up landing me in such a predicament. I tried to die a hero's death with hardly a hero's résumé. It was far too ambitious and pretentious for me to pull off and I had to learn a valuable lesson.”

“What lesson was that?” Harry dared to ask.

“Not what you think,” Draco glared. “It wasn't to not put other's before myself, to never be so self-sacrificing again, to be guarded. I know that's what you think of me, and that is what I have led you to believe, because I am rather guarded.”

“I've noticed…”

“But that's not really what I have taken from all my experiences. What Ginny sees in me, what you can't understand because I have never allowed you to see, is that I now know a hero's worth is something measured by his heart. I had to look beyond the glory and had to find strength and value from within, and that the satisfaction came from doing the right thing, not the praise received for it.”

Harry looked down. “Looking beyond the glory is the hardest part,” he said, having succumbed more than once to the fame, fortune, and praise of being a hero. He knew his ego today still banked on his expectance of being treated like someone greater, someone important. He was humble but he was also arrogant. Apparently it made him insufferable. It was one of the reasons he was in therapy. “I guess our misunderstandings of one another have led to this animosity,” Harry said, Draco sipping at his water.

“Yeah, and while you have always come across as the hero, I have come across as the jealous lament one. I guess that has left me bitter and unwilling to be forgiving.”

“What changed?”

“My therapist seems to think I'm causing more than you an unnecessary amount of stress,” Draco shrugged, not about to mention his ulcers, weight-loss, restless nights and drinking. Harry didn't need to know about that to get the message loud and clear, and he was sharing enough as it was. Draco hated these feely-feely bonding moments. He was glad Ron and him were past such things, but he wasn't about to make Harry his best mate either. He still wanted Harry to get hit by the Knight Bus, he just wasn't about to be the one that shoved him at that point.

“Dr. Valensclaro is a very hard-knocking man. He can totally get you to open your eyes to things, even while in your deepest denials”

“I've noticed,” Draco drawled. “Does he ever talk about me?” Draco was sounding mildly insecure despite his indifferent tones. Harry and he shared another common link, therapy. They both saw the same man several times a week, sat in the same office, on the same couch.

“Not much, confidentiality and all that. Say's I shouldn't give up on you, however.”

“Oh, that's nice…” Draco drawled dryly. He had already decided to not see that man again. Anyone who would throw him to the Ministry like that, and tell his girlfriend and her family and such that he was schizophrenic without having done a single damn test to see if it were actually true or not, was not someone he wanted to confide in.

“I'm worried about the Pen.”

“I'm worried about a great number of things,” Draco responded, vaguely indicating his left hand, possibly unintentionally, as he pulled out a cigarette.

“I don't know who attacked you, Draco.”

“Funny, me neither. I never imagined we would have so much in common,” Draco drawled as he flicked his lighter open with his right hand, unable to do so with his left as he had just discovered.

“Draco,” Harry sighed disapprovingly at Draco's curtness after Draco had been so open for the first time…ever.

“They accused me of doing this to myself,” Draco then explained his sudden turn of temper, closing his lighter without lighting his cigarette first.

“I know.”

“They asked me, if I had a wand, why didn't I use it?”

“Well, why didn't you?” Harry asked delicately.

“I haven't had a wand in over fourteen years. I got one two days ago. My first instinct wasn't to go for my wand; it was to run, to get away, to survive. It embarrasses me, but that's the truth. I didn't go for my wand and fight, I ran away, cowardly.”

“That wasn't cowardice, Draco, it was smart. You haven't had a wand in fourteen years, and forgive me, you weren't the best dueler in your prime. You would have gotten killed if you had fought it out. You did the intelligent thing, you got out of there.”

Draco seemed to blow Harry's words off at that, like he himself thought himself cowardly and stupid. Harry could see how hard Draco was on himself, had for a while now, people's negative opinions of him affecting Draco more than he would ever admit.

“I feared it was a Death Eater,” Draco then divulged.

“There are no…”

“I know, there are none left. I have been one of the people telling everyone that, but still, that was my first reaction to seeing the guy, and it was a feeling strong enough to stop my heart, Harry. I don't know if it was to psyche me out, if it was a sign of something resurfacing, or if it was just a coincidence…but it shook me, more than the attack itself it shook me,” Draco admitted, flicking his lighter again and taking a deep breath from his cigarette. The end flared to life as Draco flicked his lighter closed and let out his breath of smoke through his nose.

“When you said resurfacing…”

“I don't mean him coming back,” Draco assured, though snappishly. The thought of the Dark Lord coming back scared him just as much as it did Harry. “I mean to say, there are few people the Death Eaters hate more than me. Family and former supporters now out of Azkaban all have a vendetta against me, as they do you, but I'm more accessible, and frankly, more despised. You destroyed their leader; I gave you the means and opportunity. They HATE me,” he said, taking a deep breath from his cigarette.

“So that is who you think went after you? Some Dark Lord sympathizer?”

“I don't know. Not a true Death Eater if that is the case, they are all dead of have life-long stints in Azkaban. I'm the only person with the Dark Mark out on the streets. The only one's who would have such a motive, who would have the means, would be a Death Eater's family member, or a particularly bolded Neo-Eater out to make a name for himself.”

“They haven't the balls to-”

“Oh please, you know as well as I do that enough time has passed since the war for people to start idolizing the Dark Lord. The young and impressionable who can't properly remember the war are becoming enthralled with the dark side, as is what happened after the first war and how I came to be so audacious in Hogwarts. There is no Dark Lord for them to support, but that doesn't stop them from holding true to his ideals, and being overtly bastardly to make him proud.”

“You know something about this movement, more than you are letting on.” Harry accused.

“Of course I do, I'm a once Death Eater, son of a Death Eater, one-time recruiter for the Dark Lord, and a werewolf. If anyone would know about the underground going-ons of the Dark Arts and those who support it, it would be me,” Draco said dismissively as he took another taste of his cigarette, blowing the smoke away from Harry respectfully.

“I thought you said they all hated you.”

“The Death Eaters in Azkaban sure do. Those on the outside -besides maybe their families who still hold me personally responsible for their family's shortcomings and fall from grace- actually hold me to a high regard. I beat the system, I'm out, I'm free, and able to continue to be devious, if I so wish. They don't realize that is not my calling anymore, thus how I got out.”

“It sounds to me like you hang with a dangerous crowd.”

“Hardly. I have little if anything to do with them, they seek ME out from time to time, that's all. Besides, they are novices full of piss and wind.”

“Sort of like how you were?” Harry jabbed. Draco glared but then nodded.

“Yeah, just about. Except I recall giving you a run for your money more than once.”

“Yeah, because you were possessed,” Harry scoffed.

“Whatever,” Draco dismissed, puffing away at his cigarette, wishing their server would show up soon. They had been there for fifteen minutes and already Harry had made two jabs at him in regards to his dueling abilities. Besides, he only had forty minutes for lunch and Ginny really would like it if he ate something.

“So, the Neo-eaters who would have the means to attack you wouldn't, because they like you, and the Death Eaters and their partisans who would want to hurt you would, but don't have the means, so who does that leave?”

“There are plenty of people out there NOT associated with the Dark Arts who hate werewolves, Harry. I could have been attacked by a second-grade school teacher for all intents and purposes, so long as they don't like werewolves they are a prime suspect.”

“You really think-”

“No, I know. There is a difference. You may have friends who are werewolves, but you don't know what it is to be one of us, to live as one. The kind of stuff that happens to me on a daily basis would blow your mind, the kinds of people doing it would shock you. You don't have a healthy fear of old-ladies like I do,” Draco then managed to joke, what he was saying not all that funny, however.

“There have been disappearances of werewolves all over Brittan.”

“I already know about that.”

“You feel this is connected?”

“Possibly.”

“Only possibly?”

“Harry, if I didn't have something thrown, spat, or pitched at me every day, if I weren't insulted, berated, and threatened on a daily basis, if I didn't get hexed, cursed, or jinxed every now and then, and if I did get denied admittance to businesses and places just because I'm a werewolf, I would absolutely think the two are related. But from all I have experienced, it could just be one of those far too frequent, but random hate-crimes. I don't like it, but I have to keep my outlook open here.”

“Is it really as bad for werewolves as I fear?” Harry asked in a defeated tone. He had seen the Beast Department, he now heard Draco's firsthand accounts, and he had a feeling he was still not seeing the whole picture. It worried him.

“Worse,” Draco sighed, breathing from his cigarette in a long dreg before flicking it in the ashtray on the tabletop between them.

-----------------

“A pretty flower, for a pretty lady,” Draco said upon returning home and seeing Ginny. He had four flowers, but only offered one to her.

“Thank you my lover,” she said with a grin as Draco kissed her knuckles. Ginny loved his new haircut and watched his hair slide forward to cover his right eye before he gave his head one graceful shake to flip it out of the way, back on the side of his cheekbone. He must have been feeling better for that to have not hurt his head. The haircut looked chic all combed forward like that, and actually made him look younger, helped hide the fact that he had a high hairline -which Draco LOVED about the style- but it was white, all the old grown-out hair dye gone with the hack-job he had made of it. Ginny had actually referenced a magazine ad to style his hair. He now had the cut of a GQ sunglasses model. Draco was a little smitten with that comparison, Ginny a little love-struck. When he would put his sunglasses on, despite the cut lip and bruise that extended beyond the lens, he looked like he could pass for a model. He might not have felt that was true, but she did, and it certainly put a little bounce in his gimpy step to know how hot she thought he was.

Draco's eyes were locked with Ginny's for a passionate moment before he turned his attention to his daughter as she entered the room too.

“And one for my baby girl,” he said, offering one to her. She grinned and took it and allowed Draco to kiss her forehead. “One for the best mum ever,” Draco said, offering one to Narcissa who took it but just shook her head at him. “Now where is, oh, there he is,” Draco said, turning to find Michelangelo sitting in his old beat-up chair from the old apartment, it tucked in the corner because it was quite hideous but Michelangelo refusing to part with it.

“You too good for a flower?” Draco asked, sitting on the arm and offering it down to his son, but it not being taken.

“Dad.”

“Just say the word and I will throw it to the ground and stomp on it if you like,” he said and Michelangelo smiled and accepted it. Draco reached around and grabbed his head firmly by its base, and pulled his forehead against his lips to give him a kiss. “You behaved today?”

“Of course,” Michelangelo said quite snottily, but in a playful manner.

“Excellent. How about a movie?”

“A movie!” Clarissa beamed, bouncing up and down. “I get to pick it! I get to pick it!” her hand was up in the air.

“No way, he asked me, it's my choice,” Michelangelo argued.

“Someone is in a good mood, and feeling better?” Ginny said as Draco came up to her and pressed himself against her front, to hold and hug her, kiss and rub her.

“Glad to be home more like it.”

“Long day?”

“As long as yours,” he said and she nodded, him well aware of her feelings, mind reader and all. Her lunch with Neville had been nice but she had been unable to think of much else but what Mandy had said to her in her office. She knew she needed to talk to Draco about the idea of having an interview, but he seemed so happy to just be home, she would wait. She also wanted to ask why he wasn't at his therapist session with Dr. Valensclaro given that it was Friday, but could guess his answer. She felt terrible, all she had wanted was for Draco to get better, but the man had betrayed him. Despite that, however, Draco seemed in high spirits, so Ginny wouldn't ruin that with his mention.

“Lion King.” Michelangelo demanded.

“Little Mermaid,” Clarissa argued back.

It seemed like the children would not agree.

“Hercules. I win. Now get ready for the movie,” Draco interrupted, both his children looking at him before racing out the room, down the hall, and up the stairs in yet another competition, to get ready for bed and a movie. It was far too early for pajamas and pillows, but it was standard attire for a movie viewing in the Malfoy household.

“Are you alright?” Ginny asked, Draco never having been this high of spirits without some kind of external source prompting it.

“Yes,” he said, knowing what she was thinking. He was in an inexplicably good mood. Well, maybe not that inexplicably. He knew why he felt better. He wouldn't tell Ginny though that he had had a heart-to-heart with Harry. This wasn't due to his secrecy, he just didn't want to admit to her that his therapist had been right, and forgiving Harry to some extent as well as being more open at the very least, did actually make him feel better. The man may have been right, but he was also a bastard, so Draco kept mum. The potion Harry had given him certainly had helped as well with his spirits. The only way to mend a bone was by spell, which didn't work with Draco's resistance to most wand magic, so there wasn't much that could be done about his ribs or wrist. But there was a decent potion that was good for healing deep bruising, while helping with the overall pain, and that helped Draco considerably. He would still need time to heal up completely, but it was a massive step forward and a real leap in the healing process, effectively halving it. He mentioned that part to Ginny at least so she would understand why he was holding her to tight, with no fear of pain.

“Harry could get in a lot of trouble,” Ginny fretted.

“Like anyone would question the Golden-boy? No one would ask him what he did with it; he is Harry-frickin-Potter.”

“Still-”

“No, no worrying. I told you, we are coming home to watch a movie, and have some dinner, and we are going to snuggle. I can't snuggle if I'm in massive amounts of pain.”

“You promised me a song,” Ginny reminded and Draco smiled into her hair.

“As you wish,” he whispered into her ear.

------------------------

“Draco, what's this?” Ginny asked, picking up a heavy, leather-bound book from his dresser and holding it in her two hands. They were readying for bed, movies watched, songs sung, supper finished. Draco seemed to have a healthy appetite for once, and Ginny could tell he was still in high spirits, the songs he had sung evidence to the fact.

“That is called a book, Weasley darling,” Draco replied in his typical drawl as he pulled down the blankets, everyone already in their pajamas already from before.

“I know that, prat,” she said while rolling her eyes. “I mean, is this a book on astrology?”

“It would appear to be, yes,” he said indifferently, her able to read the cover as easily as it would be for him to just tell her.

“Why do you have it?”

“Funny thing about books, people get them to read.”

“You interested in astrology?” she asked, ignoring his sarcasm, Draco shrugging in answer.

“I needed something to read, and working in a library provides me with an endless supply of reading material. In the Hall of Records I was limited to strictly history texts, so I decided to change it up a bit now with this opportunity. History, though my favorite subject, is just too damn depressing.”

“Please don't tell me you are one of those people who just reads exceedingly long and boring books for the sake of reading.”

“What else would I do with a book, Weasley darling, converse with it over tea?” Draco asked so sweetly as he batted his eyelashes at her. She wanted to pinch his arm.

“Like, you don't read fiction novels or best-sellers, you just read volumes and volumes to expand your knowledge,” she said.

“Reading makes you smart,” Draco said in a very uneducated tone and manner, giving her a blank stare.

“Oh, stop it!” Ginny laughed, raising the heavy volume like she would throw it at him. “You are like Hermione, you just read, stuff, anything, on any topic, for no explicit reason.”

“You take that back, I am not like Granger, yuck,” Draco drawled and Ginny raised the book again. “I wasn't top of my class because I read the Quibbler,” he said smugly, confident his girlfriend wouldn't risk bruising his pretty face any more than it already was by throwing the book at him, no matter how much of an arrogant git he was being.

“Hermione was top of you class, you were second,” Ginny pointed out to be just as infuriating and Draco's left eye made a twitch in a way that so eerily reminded her of his mother when she was silently composed but truly irked.

“Thank you for that reminder,” he managed to say very calmly though she could tell it was forced. His jaw and teeth were very much so clenched. He sat down at the vanity and meant to pick up his comb with his left hand, seemingly remembered with that motion that it was in a cast and used his right, then stared at his reflection as though unsure what to do with his new hair.

“Let's see what this book has to say about you then,” Ginny teased, ready to make better and lightening the mood as a means of apologizing. “You are a Gemini, right?” she asked.

“Yes,” Draco answered slowly, watching her as she flipped through the book haphazardly, looking for whatever it was she was searching for.

Ginny finally settled on a page and smiled, patting the bed beside her for him to join her.

“Come here, you,” she enticed. Draco smirked at her as he crawled up beside her with his broken arm curled up against his chest -weight bared on the right only- and Ginny read aloud.

“Gemini: Adaptable and versatile, communicative and witty, intellectual and eloquent, youthful and lively,” she said and looked over at Draco who smiled smugly. “Nervous and tense, superficial and inconsistent, cunning and inquisitive,” she then read and Draco glared over her shoulder at the page indignantly, Ginny continuing before he could object or complain. “It says here: Individuals born under this sign are thought to have a inquisitive, clever, courageous, and adaptable character -among the other characteristics listed above- but one which is also prone to superficiality, maliciousness, inconsistency, cowardice, nervousness, and cunning,” she read and Draco huffed.

“Typical likes for a Gemini are sex,” she said and Draco leaned in to lick the under edge of her jaw-length slowly, getting her to scrunch up her shoulders and giggle because it tickled. “Stop it…” she laughed. She cleared her throat and continued. “Talking, the unusual, teaching, learning, having multiple projects all going at once, traveling, making jokes,” she said and Draco shrugged unable to argue with any of that because it all seemed true. “Dislikes typically include losing, being wrong, being in a bad situation, mental inaction, being alone…not getting credit for one's successes,” she said, stifling a laugh as Draco glared down at the book.

“Moving on,” he said dryly, Ginny clearing her throat again.

“Physically, individuals born under this sign supposedly tend to have a straight and narrow nose,” she said reaching over to poke him in the nose which he responded by playfully trying to bite her fingertip. “Long and thin limbs,” she said and smiled at him, both unable to deny that Draco was thin and lanky. “A well-proportioned chin,” she said, and Draco stuck his out proudly, his masculine chin curtsy of his father, a much firmer chin than that of his mothers for which he was grateful. “A pointed jaw line, high cheekbones, fine bone structure,” she read, thinking of Draco's mother and such features Draco had inherited from her. “Finely-textured hair, small hands, long and slender fingers,” she read and started laughing as she announced the next, “and large ears,” she chuckled and Draco looked over at her from his posing and fawning over himself to look indignant.

“What?” he demanded.

“They are thought to usually be slender in build and of average height,” she said and he scoffed before she could continue. “Among medieval astrologers, Gemini was thought of as a fortunate sign, and its subjects were considered to possess the qualities intense devotion, genius, largeness of mind, goodness, and liberality,” she finished reading, looking over at Draco, “I think that is fairly accurate when it comes to you,” she smiled.

“I do not have big ears,” he pouted and Ginny snapped the book closed, threw her head back, and laughed open and loudly. “Hush. Now what did it say about me being devoted, and a genius?” he inquired while taking the book from Ginny's hands and opening it to flip through the pages to find where she had been reading, choosing to ignore the part where he was also supposedly “superficial, malicious, cowardly, nervous, or inconsistent.” Who says being “cunning” is a negative quality anyways? It was a very prideful mark of any Slytherin.

“Oh yes, you really do, babe, but I like them,” Ginny said, leaning up to dart her tongue against his earlobe and causing an indisputable shiver to run through him. Draco was so doped up on his potion from Harry he was feeling a little restless. Apparently that was a side effect. Harry had mentioned it in passing as Draco had unquestioningly downed it. Now Draco felt he knew what Harry had meant as he looked down at Ginny.

Ginny looked up at him, ready to just laugh with him, sigh in contentment, and fall asleep in each others arms. It was how they often fell asleep, it was part of their special bond, and how she expected him to feel as banged up as he looked, but her eyes met his and there was a weight there that pulled her in so she couldn't look away, her smile slowly wilting to just look at him in question. Draco leaned down while closing his eyes to plant a kiss on her, and Ginny did nothing at first. She raised her arms slowly to then hold the sides of his face and he wrapped his arms around her, the casted one a little more stiffly.

Ginny was the one who deepened the kiss, and Draco took that as an open invitation to proceed as he placed his right hand on her breast, palming it firmly, loving their size and weight. He couldn't deny it; he was a bit of a boob-man. Ginny being pregnant as she was, her breasts were large and obvious. His hands found themselves on them frequently, his eyes if they were out in public, but he made sure he was gentle, knowing they were tender.

Draco was kneeling on the bed while bent over, Ginny on the mattress before him and leaning backwards across his lap, supported by him in a sort of sweeping kiss. Ginny allowed herself to be lost within the kiss, until she felt Draco shift and lay her down on the mattress, good hand up behind her head for support, right leg lifted to swing over her and mount her lap. She found herself pinned to the mattress in one graceful shift by Draco and she broke the kiss to enquire exactly what he thought he was doing.

“Draco, what-” she attempted to ask but he shushed her softly.

“Us Gemini like sex,” he said softly, pressing his lips against hers so she couldn't object. He knew she would refuse him if he gave her a chance, not because she didn't want to, but because she was worried about him. He wouldn't have that, and he wouldn't sit there and explain to her his capability either. He wanted her, and he knew Ginny was game despite her protests, so he would take her. It was a reversal of roles for them since it was usually Ginny taking the more dominant spirit most nights. Draco was conquered a lot, and it certainly was fun, but sometimes he wanted to be the one to take charge and make her moan for more. He wanted to pull her hair tonight, lick her throat and nip at the skin, rub up against her and breathe heavily across her nipples.

Reaching down he slipped his hands under her nightdress and pushed it up her thighs. Ginny didn't have sexy knickers on like she used to wear when they first met. At night, while so pregnant, she just wore well covering cotton, but Draco loved them. He lifted up that white hem and crawled backwards to rest on her knees, face presented with her cottens and a devilish smirk creeping across his face. Ginny had to lean on her elbows to see over her stomach and Draco beyond it, but she knew exactly what he was doing when he kissed the front of her kickers, way down low. He opened his mouth to bite at the material and run his teeth over it and Ginny moaned, loving it when Draco paid this focus to her and made such an effort to arouse and stimulate her. Draco kissed and played with her through the knickers, spreading her legs to nose between them, Ginny biting her bottom lip and smiling, her body really liking this, the heat erupting from her down there notable and strong. Draco ran his tongue over her knickers in one long stroke and breathed heavily in her scent -smell being the most important sense to a werewolf after all- and he could recognize the pheromones, the sweat, the desire.

“Draco,” she moaned as he rubbed her through the thin material, her legs flapping closed a little at that sudden strong stimulation. Draco held them open, then crawled up over her to be back up at her neck, hand still down between her legs where he was now rubbing her in a circular motion, Ginny's mouth open, Draco's lips trailing along her shoulder.

He smiled as her hips tried to rock up towards his hand but her pregnant condition and his body over hers preventing that. He rubbed her a little more firmly, getting her to pant, and then slipped his hand under the edge, to grab her hair then as a contradictory stimulation. A little pain after so much pleasure got her to gasp before his fingertips wondered lower, to kindle her like before, only without the knickers in the way.

“Draco, why are you doing this?” Ginny asked in her breathlessness, eyes closed as her hips eagerly tried to rock, encouraging him on.

“Because I love you,” he said quite simply, lips still against her skin.

“But you are sick. You were close to death…”

“Well, then be a good doctor and cure me of my ails,” he said, stopping in his touching of her to grab her hand and pull it towards him. Ginny wasn't sure what he was doing until she felt him place her hand on himself and she could feel through his trousers that he was already erect without having so much as touched himself yet. Ginny opened her eyes to look at him and he smirked, kissing her as he inserted his hand back down the front of her knickers. Ginny gasped and grasped him with his fingers sliding in her, and Draco's hips bucked a little at her sudden force. Knowing he wouldn't appreciate another yank like that, she made amends by slipping her hand down the front of his pajamas and found him without knickers, his body large and warm and ready there, waiting for her.

Ginny smiled -Draco able to feel that against his lips- as she wrapped her hand around it. He turned his hand, Ginny appreciating that greatly and rewarding him with a pump from her own. The angle was a bit off, but he seemed to realize this before even she did, and he shifted, eager for her to join in on this little mission he had started.

Draco always tinged a little pink when doing something sexual. She had learned it wasn't a modest blush like she had first assumed, but just something he did when he was excited. She leaned up to lick his slightly flushed cheek and he took the opportunity that break in kissing offered to lean his head back and pant a little as Ginny's hand helped itself to all he had to offer.

Ginny knew they could go on like this for a while, both manually stimulating the other to the point of breaking and easing back, both a tease like that, making this last for hours. Yes, they had done that before, and yes, hours…but Ginny wanted more. Draco did too, and he knew what she wanted. Being a mind reader had its uses. Knowing how exactly to please your woman was just a fringe benefit, but one that made it all worth while if you asked him.

Both still dressed, Draco felt they should loose the cotton bed-wear first, before they decided what exactly they would do to one another. Draco pulled back from Ginny to be straddling her legs again, but this time the front of his trousers were pulled down to expose his erection, just rigid there like that between them. Draco wouldn't be distracted, however, so while Ginny stared with greedy eyes, he pushed up her nightgown and encouraged her to lift her bum so he could pull it up. It went over her tummy, over her breasts, and over her head very quickly and Draco tossed it aside carelessly. Ginny was left with her large, covering -supportive but not terribly sexy- maternity bra and panties. They were both white, both a little boring, but Draco stared down at her like there was nothing more beautiful. Ginny didn't understand how Draco could see her so alluring when she was so pregnant, but he loved her pregnant, loved her body, and loved that she was carrying his pup. Seeing her naked, his child curled up within her, her body nurturing and supporting her -or him- always got him excited. It made Ginny so special, so gorgeous, even more so than he already saw her as.

Ginny leaned up then and removed her bra as Draco unbuttoned his shirt as best he could with one bum arm. It didn't hurt at the moment, but the cast was still heavy and awkward to work with, causing his fingers to fumble.

Free of her top, Ginny's breasts were unsupported and laid bear. Draco took a moment to appreciate with his eyes how they had grown. Ginny couldn't imagine what he was so thrilled about, they weren't all that attractive, her nipples had grown and darkened, and she had blue veins just under the skin working overtime, her breasts starting on that whole milk production thing only making them engorge further. Draco couldn't seem more pleased, however, so Ginny tossed her bra aside to help get Draco's shirt off. Spidery veins would one day pass, so she could live with that, but she loved magic, and because of it, she didn't have a stretch mark to show for her massive belly. It was a wondrous thing. As ridiculously large her belly had gotten, it actually was very attractive with the smooth skin, the freckles that Draco always tried to clean away with his tongue though had yet been unsuccessful.

She pushed the shirt down his shoulders and pulled it over his hands for him. His chest was deeply bruised and painful looking, but nothing Draco was doing gave any indication he was in any sort of pain, so she looked past it to appreciate him for all that he was. Very thin still in a bony way, he was still so beautiful despite that. His skin was barely better than white. Cream was really pushing it; milk was probably the best comparison. His skin never saw the sun, not for years and years. He had a “second belly-button” as he liked to call it, above his natural one, which was a bit of scar tissue from where he had been run through in that final battle. She couldn't see the scars on his lower left arm because of the cast, but she could see his tattoo on his right, his family's crest on a shield and a dragon twined around the sword behind it. She kissed it, wishing he would show off the beautiful tattoo, wear short-sleeved shirts, love his body like she did. Draco leaned down to hold her face and guide it up. He kissed her lips, Ginny reciprocating, hands on the waistband of his pajama trousers. They were half off, but she wanted to see that cute little bum of his.

Her hands slipped under the elastic and over that smooth flesh and once palmed she grasped. Draco grunted a little, always caught off guard by a bit of bum grabbing but never one to admit how much he liked it when she did. She pinched his bum, smacked it, grasped it, quite often in their daily lives. In bed she was no different. He had thought it inappropriate at first for a man to be fondled in such a way, but she liked his arse, who was he to deny her the joys it entailed? Ginny pulled his pants down, gave his bum a little smack, and allowed him to get his knees, ankles, and feet free while she lay back down, placing a pillow under her lower back because she couldn't let herself lay flat in her condition.

Draco tossed the trousers aside to find only one last article left between them. He ran his hand over Ginny's knickers like he had at the start of all this and found them moist. Some of that was from him licking and kissing at them, but lower, where it was damper, and warmer, that was all her. He could smell it, smell her, and it was enough to make his body release some of its pre-ejaculate.

Retreating back down to his starting position, Draco nipped at her knickers with his front teeth and gave them a tug. Ginny giggled as she leaned up, Draco removing them with his just his teeth. He gave a tug, a pull, and with a little help from her lifting her bum up off the mattress some, he was able to pull them down her thighs. His hands took over at that point so he didn't have to climb off the bed to finish removing them, and he returned to burry his nose in her, smelling her, licking at her, Ginny holding her breasts as she closed her eyes, enjoying Draco's admiration. Draco helped make sure she was moist down there by adding a little bit of his saliva, spreading it and her own body's lubricants around with his tongue, knowing they were going to need them if he was to enter her without any painful friction. They had learned months ago that Ginny was narrow, and he was wide, and together they made a frictional couple. With so many tasty, tingly, warming, cooling lubricants, lotions, and gels, it had opened up an interesting door for them, but they didn't have those things at the moment, so they would make do, sometimes the friction the most mind-blowing part.

Draco had his good-hand down between his legs, running it over himself, getting ready and as moist as he was going to get on his own.

“Don't do something you are going to regret in the morning,” Ginny warned as Draco slowly climbed over her tummy.

“I will never in my life regret touching you, Ginny,” he assured as he remained bridged over that pregnant belly, so much implied but left unsaid with their child between them, using his hand to guide himself into position, about to put a stop to Ginny's fretful protests once and for all.

Ginny took a sharp breath as Draco pressed into her, and she relaxed her lower body to allow his entrance, but it was still a measured process. He carefully pressed forward, using his fingers to help her spread, and Ginny kept her hands over her breasts until she had to breathe out or pass out, taking that moment to reach down and hold his bum, pressing him forward into her and a slightly faster rate.

It burned a little with no added lubricant, but there they were, comfortably joined, Draco above her and looking as happy as a cat with a saucer of cream before him. Ginny looked up at him, seeing that smile on his lips and giving his arse a smack, knowing how much he was enjoying himself and her unable to complain but for that smugness. One would think by the look on his face that he had conquered the unattainable. She had never been that hard to get, not when it came to him at least.

It was slow at first, giving Ginny time to relax some and for him to become slicker. It was also enjoyable, so why rush it? Draco was patient, despite how badly he would love to just dive in and have at it. They could when they first got together, it was why they were pregnant now actually, but they hadn't been able to do that any time recently. He couldn't go so deep with her as pregnant as she was, so his movements were measured and tame. His mouth found itself on Ginny's breast, and he sucked on her nipple a little, holding the other breast in his right palm all while moving in and out of her. It was almost too slow, one near-full stroke followed by another. Ginny found it maddening, but it was necessary. Still, she wanted more. She reached down to grab his swollen balls and Draco groaned, Ginny still unable to get him to be vocal in bed. She knew he liked things by how he softly moaned, groaned, and panted, but he wouldn't cry out even if she hurt him. He giggled now and then, denied that later of course, but she was determined to take him one day and have him screaming for more. They still had time. Once she was no longer pregnant and her mobility returned she would top him; top him until he called out her name.

“Draco,” she moaned. Draco knew what she wanted, like a good lover, and he gave it to her, like a considerate lover. He didn't exactly barrel into her, but he stopped taking such long deep strokes and halved them, replacing the length of each withdraw with a more speedy thrust. He kept his mouth on her breast, Ginny gripping his much shorter hair as she tried to rock her hips to meet his but finding that far too difficult with their baby between them and Draco above. He had to keep his weight off her tummy, as waifish as he was, so he was arched. He had a surprisingly flexible spine, Ginny had discovered. Draco was far more flexible than anyone she had ever met, more than you would think by just looking at him, and she wasn't talking about bending over and touching his toes either.

The baby right then gave an indignant kick, like “keep it down, I'm trying to sleep here,” and Draco felt that against his own upper stomach which was barely touching her.

“You feel that?” he panted, worried if this would hurt the baby. Parenting books all said it was safe to have sex, care to be taken if there is a history or risk of miscarriage or pre-mature labor, but something about the act, with their baby there with them at this late stage, seemed obscene. Could the baby hear them? What did the sex sound like from within Ginny? Was her quickened heartbeat and shallow breaths affecting their child? Draco kind'a wanted to stop then, fearing the situation would become too intense for Ginny's delicate condition, even if she refused to acknowledge her fragility.

“I think he knows we're up to something,” she panted, hoping Draco would not stop since he had certainly slowed.

“He?” Draco asked, wanting to give Ginny a particularly vigorous thrust to refute that but resisting and actually stopping. He made a girl, he did, he was going to get Ginny to see that.

“Don't stop, Draco, please don't,” she begged, Draco obliging, though keeping a close eye on her while leaning less over her. He was upright now, Ginny on her back. It was certainly easier on his back to not try and crane over while thrusting, but it felt less intimate at the same time having their faces so far apart. It was one of the reasons why he liked taking her from behind so much. Her belly wasn't an issue then, she tended to be more comfortable on her side, and he could have his face right up alongside hers. He could kiss her, bite her, grope her. Thinking on that, why was he doing it this way?

Draco had his hands on Ginny's bent knees and looked down as he withdrew. Ginny sat up some as she felt him leave her and she was about to question why he was stopping, but his smirk reassured her that he was not through. He was still hard and ready as ever, and looking ready to cause some mischief.

Draco crawled up along side her, Ginny's eyes remaining between his legs as he drew closer, and he laid himself down beside her, going right back to their kissing, Ginny recognizing this switch of position immediately and rolling over some so she was kissing over her shoulder with him to her back, him leaning around. He reached down with his right arm to lift her leg, needing to get right back to what they were doing.

Ginny felt Draco drag just his tip forward and backward over her a few times, not like he was missing, just being a tease about it, not entering right away, arousing her like he had before with his hand. She hated it when he did this. Not that she didn't enjoy it, but it made her too much of a begging puddle of mush. She liked to dominate. Getting dominated was fun but she fought it. Draco enjoying the rivalry and challenge, thus she was rewarding him. She rubbed her bum backwards against him in that way that drove him crazy and she could tell by the way he was sniffing her that certain instincts of his were taking charge. She had gotten accustomed to his behavior, and accepted that him being a werewolf meant he really wasn't a man -despite appearances- and his desires reflected this, but he hadn't yet done or asked to do anything that made her uncomfortable. A little growling was sexy.

He pressed into her like before, both of them moist already, Ginny already prepped for him, and so it went much faster this time. Draco was already thrusting from the moment he slid in, his narrow hips rocking up against her backside, Ginny moaning with each completed thrust. It couldn't be as deep this way, but that actually served to make it more comfortable for her, being pregnant certainly making sex so much more complex than it used to be. Their room was protected so no one outside would hear them, so Ginny was able to let loose and be loud, even when Draco wouldn't. The bed could thump against the wall, mattress creek, she could scream, and he could grunt over and over, and no one in the house would be any the wiser.

Magic was a beautiful thing.

“Oh-god, Draco,” Ginny panted in pleasure after some time, one hand bracing her, the other holding her stomach, Draco's pace increasing with each of her verbal enticements. Their sheets were damp and askew. Their lights were still on, as Draco liked it, and Ginny could see themselves in the mirror on the wall across the room. She wanted him to go, and go, like they had been, but there was a point where the pleasure almost became too much, and it became a discomfort, and she knew then it was starting, and her body started to tighten around his. His thrusts became a little slower, him having to push deeper, and Ginny started to moan loudly, releasing some of that tension but Draco not wanting that. He leaned around while turning her head so he could kiss her, not wanting her to loose any of their steam, wanting it to remain contained until the very end. He could go at any moment, and would happily now if he was guaranteed Ginny would join him, but he had to see this through, see to it she came so he could then join her, because it was the best when they shared it.

Ginny's hand gripped his, gripped it so tight he thought she would break his fingers of, and her body finally spammed. Ginny tore her lips away to let out a scream that encouraged him to grab her by the fronts of her hips and press himself into her as he tilted his head back, feeling his rhythmic contractions as he released and her milk him for all he was worth. He didn't scream like her, but the fervor was still there, their bodies slick with sweat, hair a mess with vigor and carelessness, bodies throbbing and joined.

Draco laid himself down behind Ginny, still spooned against her as tightly as possible, and he hooked his chin over her shoulder as his body still spammed now and then, abs and lower still feeling the residual effects of his orgasm and him knowing she was going through much the same. They panted, Draco more than her with the expended effort, and took a moment to enjoy the moment. Ginny wiggled and spread her toes, like she always did, and Draco smiled because of it. That was almost his favorite part.

“I love you,” he whispered into her ear, a drop of sweat dripping from his chin onto her neck.

“I love you so much, Draco,” Ginny reciprocated, sighing as they laid there, hands held, bodies quivering and joined as he licked her salty skin slowly.

Author's Note:

Hello my darlings! Thank you ALL for they lovely reviews! 15! Gosh, I wish every update could be my birthday, but then there would only be one update a year. :/

I have a nice blog about this chapter in my LJ here: http://draconisangelus.livejournal.com/9978.html and I hope you all check it out! I included a drawing I did of Draco's new haircut, a drawing of Michelangelo since many of you have never seen him before, and I also posted the song Draco sang to Ginny that I cut from the chapter. TONS OF FUN TO BE HAD, so check it out, please? *puppy-eyes*

Don't let the smut overpower your reviews if you write one. Lol!

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Fallen Angel

Chapter 13

Draco sat outside Clarissa's bedroom, on the floor with his knees pulled up, hands up in his hair and gripping the roots as tight as he could despite the pain with his bum hand that had returned with the metabolism of Harry's donated potion. Clarissa could be heard crying from within and Draco was on the outside, unable to comfort her, unsure of what he could have done to comfort her even if he were granted admittance. He was at a loss here; he didn't know what to do. This was terrible, just terrible. Why was this happening? This wasn't fair. Why was life so cruel?

“Is she in there?” Ginny asked upon coming back upstairs. She had left to go down to the kitchen while Draco had decided to check on the children. Now he needed her because she was the only one he could turn to, his mother was curiously not home.

“Yeah, she is…” Draco said, unmoving in his hair-ripping position.

“Don't worry, Draco, this isn't the end of the world,” Ginny attempted to comfort but Draco wouldn't have it. He got up very quickly and left, brushing by Ginny to go down the stairs and escape from view, escape from the situation. She now understood why Clarissa was so upset given how badly Draco was handling this, though she couldn't really blame him. He was a guy, and he was her father. She supposed that excused him in this matter.

“Claire? Sweetie?” she asked as she knocked on the door, not about to barge in. “Hey there Claire-bear, can I come in?” she asked, just hearing Clarissa's soft sobs and taking that as the girls need for her. She flicked her wand, opened the door, and entered quietly. She closed and locked the door behind her, as though that would comfort Clarissa, but she seemed rather inconsolable at the moment.

Clarissa was standing in the corner beyond her bed, feet shoulder width apart, just crying into her hands. Ginny frowned her brow at her and pressed her lips together. She didn't like how upset Clarissa was over this, but then again, she doubted her Nana had ever given her any warning, and what did Draco know of such things?

“Hey there,” Ginny said as she approached, Clarissa turning away a little but it being a weak attempt at best of keeping Ginny distant. “Come here, it's alright. You're alright,” she calmed, hugging the little girl and stroking her hair. She supposed she couldn't think of Clarissa as a little girl anymore.

“Daddy is so upset with me,” she sobbed.

“Of course not, why would you even think that?”

“He doesn't want me to be a woman,” Clarissa hiccupped, putting her arms around Ginny.

“You can't control your body Claire, and your father is not angry, or upset, just unsure of what to do. He's a guy, it's what their best at,” Ginny teased, Clarissa seemingly taking little comfort from that. “Look at me,” Ginny said, kneeling down before Clarissa so they were more level, Ginny looking up at her some as she held Clarissa's shoulders. “I came from a house of brothers. I know what it's like for them to not understand why I sometimes couldn't swim, or ride a broom, or what have you. My mum helped me, just like I am here to help you.”

“Why did this have to happen?” Clarissa moped, no longer crying but unable to look Ginny in the eyes, tear tracks stained down her freckled cheeks.

“It's part of growing up,” she said, Clarissa not looking elated with that. “It happens to everyone, even if they don't want to. We all grow up, but not in spirit, if we don't wish. I get the impression, however, that you are already quite grown up, you just don't show it to very many people,” she said and Clarissa managed a meek glance up at Ginny.

“I don't want this.”

“What girl does? But you are lucky it happened now, rather when you got to Hogwarts. That's when it happened for me, and I had to rely on my dorm-mates to help me, and that was so much harder because we barely knew each other at that point.”

“I can't imagine this being easy regardless.”

“It isn't a terrible thing, not a big deal. Come on. We can go to the bathroom, you can clean up,” she offered and Clarissa just turned away, not looking like she wanted to leave her room, face the world, see her father. Ginny knew this. “He isn't upset.”

“He won't look at me the same anymore,” she moped.

“He has a young woman for a daughter now, but nothing has changed, nothing is wrong.” Clarissa looked reluctant. “Come on,” Ginny said, standing with a groan and much support from her knees. “You need to get cleaned up one way or another.”

Clarissa finally did leave her room, to be escorted to the bathroom to clean up. While she managed that on her own, there was an issue of needing to clean her room, but the issue being that of blood. Ginny knew it safest to have Draco handle any of that, but then, she didn't think Draco could handle any of this. She decided to beeline to the stairs and find Draco. She would speak to him first.

“You got her more upset than waking up with bloody sheets did,” Ginny practically scolded as Draco sat hunched shouldered at the kitchen table, strong black coffee before him but untouched.

“I don't know what you would have me do, Batterie in joy?” he said, making a ballet jump reference to be even more absurd.

“No, but being a parent here would be nice.”

“I don't know how to handle this, I have never had to deal with anything like this before, it's not like I know what she is going through.”

“All those books you read and none of them explained to you the basic metaphysics of a woman's body?”

“First of all, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about my daughter's body, womanly or child-like alike,” Draco fumed. “And secondly, of course I know what is happening, but no basic diagrams or medical explanations give me any insight as to how to deal with it when it happens to my own baby girl.”

“That is your problem right there, she isn't your baby girl, Draco.”

Draco just looked down.

“I know you want her to be, but she isn't. She hasn't been for years and years,” she said more softly, moving closer to sit across from Draco.

“I didn't have her years and years ago. I have only had her for three years now, and she was already a young-lady the first time I got to hold her, hug her,” he moped, Ginny's heart crushing because she already knew Draco had been denied physical contact with his children for almost nine years. Clarissa had been nine years old when he got to hug her for the very first time, and she didn't have to wonder why Draco was so clingy when it came to `his babies' but still, it wasn't good for the children or him to act as though they were exactly how he had left them, as infants. Michelangelo's acting out, and Clarissa's total unawares of these things and poor response to them evidence to this.

“Draco,” Ginny sighed, grabbing his hands but knowing she needed to get back to Clarissa real soon. “Everything will be alright. I'll handle this, you take care of Michael today, and don't act as though something has changed about Claire. She is most upset about that. She wants to be your little girl, you know she plays up to that. Let her know she is still, and always will be, your little girl.”

Draco nodded slowly, looking down before looking up at Ginny.

“Thank you for being here. If who I had to turn to with this had been my mother, you could only imagine how much worse this would have been. Clarissa would have been given the lecture of womanhood, which was something I had been putting off for a while now. She would have sat down with Clarissa months ago on this topic, but I kept delaying it because my mother is rather…”

“Inexpressive?”

“Brutal,” Draco corrected with a sigh.

“I will deal with Clarissa, not that there is much to be dealt with,” Ginny pressed, “But I will cheer her up. You take Michael to his hearing today, and I will spend the day with Clarissa, have a woman's day out,” she said, rubbing Draco's good arm as they sat across from each other. Draco nodded, and Ginny stood, knowing Draco would deal with this, he was good at that. Or he would go into denial. He was really good at that.

“Ginny,” he called after her just as she was about to head back upstairs. She paused and looked back.

“I love you,” he said, feeling like he was utterly worthless in this situation and leaving Ginny to have to step up to the broom again, which didn't seem fair.

“I love you, babe. Take care of your son,” she said, giving Draco a sense of purpose.

Ginny came back upstairs to find Clarissa not in the bathroom she shared with her brother, but back in her bedroom. She had her sheets off her bed and in a pile on the floor, and she was still in her frilly pink nightgown. She looked so sorrowful standing there, gazing at her frilling pink sheets and Ginny had to just smile as she approached, opening her arms to offer a hug.

“Took care of that for me did you? Well, I suppose there is only one thing left to do,” she said, voice upbeat and invigorating.

“What?”

“Get dressed up to go out.”

“I don't really want to go out,” Clarissa moped.

“Oh sure you do. You have wanted forever to get your ears pierced, right?” Ginny prompted and Clarissa just looked at her is surprise.

“Daddy told me it was not allowed. If God wanted holes in my ears he would have put them there,” she said.

“This coming from a man with a tattoo,” Ginny snickered but in a good-natured tone.

“But I'm not allowed to get my ear pierced anywhere, because my blood…” she trailed off, almost blushing at that as she looked down. Ginny sighed.

“I know a place where we can go, no worries there. Besides, we need to take you out to get you all the things women need.”

Clarissa looked questioningly.

“You will see once we are out. You used what I gave you, right?” she asked and Clarissa nodded.

“Good, then you can get dressed while I do so myself, and we will leave.”

----------------------

Draco went to check on his other child, who might have slept through all of that morning's happenings. He somehow doubted that given how lightly Michelangelo slept, and how stressed he was, but Draco was hoping. He knocked on the door but entered immediately to find Michelangelo standing there, only in a pair of dark denims, no shirt. It was obvious he was in the middle of getting dressed, and he was struggling with what he should wear.

“Is Claire alright?” he asked as soon as Draco had closed the door.

“She's fine.”

“Did this blindside her that much?”

“I think she is more upset with how I would handle it,” Draco sighed.

“And how are you handling it?”

“As best as I can, and why are we even talking about it? Get dressed.” Draco snapped, though not in a harsh way, just in an annoyed and a little disturbed way.

Michelangelo managed a soft laugh as he turned, looking at his spent clothing laid out before him on his bed.

“You're nervous,” Draco said, coming up alongside his son.

“How could you tell?” Michelangelo sighed, tossing another shirt aside to join the heap he was creating on his mattress.

“Well, I am a mind reader,” Draco said, picking up a shirt and tossing it aside as though that were enough to clear a space for him on the bed as he sat down. He looked up at his shirtless son and managed a small smile, a supportive expression in place.

“I don't know what to wear.”

“I can see that,” Draco said, looking over his shoulder to the laundry littered mattress.

“Is this formal? Would they think I'm trying too hard to show my remorse by wearing a shirt and tie and come across looking fake? Would a t-shirt and jeans give the impression that I do not care or resent their authority?” he fussed, looking down at himself and knowing his current state was totally unacceptable and still wondering if there was anything that could be done about his hair.

“Don't worry so much,” Draco chuckled, picking up a black t-shirt as he stood and offering it to his son, who put it on without question.

“I can't help it.”

“It's an odd thing to claim as a negative trait, but you think too much. Don't try and calculate your every move, you will only come across as rehearsed,” he coached and Michelangelo appreciated it. He was so indescribably happy that his father was being so understanding, so supportive, after everything that had happened. Michelangelo still had burns, slowly healing, on his left arm, a constant and forever reminder of his stupidity.

Draco knew what his son was thinking, and sat back down.

“You know what you did was stupid, Michael, and that is the most any of us could hope for and thus why I am not still riding your arse. The courts will see that. You are young, you have no record prior to this, and you are really good at looking meek, so play that up, be gracious and polite because I know you have that in you somewhere, and own up to what you did like a man,” Draco said, both serious and mocking at the same time.

“What's the worst that can happen?” Michelangelo asked and Draco's face sobered up some as he looked at his hopeful son.

“I'm not sure, Michael,” he admitted, these being Muggle courts and Muggle laws after all, and he not exactly well versed in their ways.

----------------------

“Michelangelo Lucius Malfoy,” the judge announced, Michelangelo standing up at being addressed. The hearing was already drawing to a close. He had shown up at the courthouse with his father, had been patted down and run through security measures, was signed in by his father, and left to wait, and wait. Finally taken to a courtroom, he was left to sit by himself, almost as though on display for all in the room to see, as his crimes were read off. It had been a terrible thing to sit through with his father beyond the barrier, watching on and listening in. The judge with his silly white wig and ominous black chamber robes loomed over him, looking so disapproving and coarse.

Run through all the paces, it was time to be told what the outcome of his hearing would be. So far he had suffered through so much without much of anything to say to refute their claims and only brief opportunities to even try. He had declined to say anything so far.

“You are here on some serious charges, but as I see from the papers the police house has provided that you did comply with their wishes and turned in the names of the other boys you were with,” he said and Michelangelo fought to not turn and look at his father, knowing he had done no such thing, but his father certainly had, on his behalf. “Troublemakers the lot of them, they have been in the court before and you certainly fell into bad company with them. I do not doubt that they were the instigators in this, but that does not excuse your actions either,” he said, so firm, so cantankerous. It was obvious this man dealt with a lot of “troubled youth” on a daily basis and had long ago become desensitized and cold.

“In accordance to the agreed upon terms, I am releasing you, into your father's care,” he said and Michelangelo dared to look excited for a moment before the judge cracked down. “Under the condition that you undergo psychiatric evaluation and see a counselor, as well as paying a percentage of the damages and time serving the community,” the judge said, Michelangelo's expression falling but not in a way that made it seem like he felt he was being treated unfairly. He nodded as he looked down and the gavel slammed on the knocker once to finalize the decision, causing both Michelangelo and Draco to flinch.

“The boy is to be released to his father, this court is adjourned,” the Judge announced as he stood, all in there standing out of respect with him. Some camera's were flashing and Michelangelo did his best to keep is chin down so he wouldn't glare, because he recognized the purple puffs of smoke. Wizarding Paparazzi, there in the Muggle court, to make a story out of this. Draco lifted his good arm to welcome his son to fit below it and be held to his side. Michelangelo was not very clingy, not in public anyways, but he needed a hug right now and wouldn't turn his father away, even if there were pictures being taken. Maybe what Clarissa said was true, it would be harder for them to spin a terrible story about him if all they had to work with were photographs of him hugging his daddy. Michelangelo really liked this way of saying “fuck you!” to the paps. So subtle, yet so effectual.

“How about some ice cream?” Draco offered, leaving the courtroom with his son turned under his good arm for safekeeping.

--------------------

“Ever have a manicure before?” Ginny asked as she sat there, getting her nails done, Clarissa sitting beside her, getting the same treatment but looking stunned as she stared down at the process. Her ears were freshly pierced and a little red, but the glittering rhinestones drawing your attention to them rather demandingly. Clarissa looked over at Ginny and silently shook her head and Ginny laughed. She knew Clarissa, like any werewolf, was barred from most establishments such as salons, because the trimming of nails and hair was considered a “health-hazard” even though there was no way of infecting or even tainting anyone with their human nails or hair. Still, people were scared, and cautious, and thus prejudiced.

Ginny took Clarissa to a Muggle salon and allowed the girl to enjoy their pampering. So long as no one trimmed a cuticle too short so as to cause bleeding, there wasn't any risk. As it was, Ginny knew that Clarissa, while menstruating, was supposed to be on strict quarantine. She thought that cruel, unjust, and ignorant, but she could see how there would be concerns with a werewolf continuously bleeding for a week. She knew this was a major hurtle Draco had to get over for Clarissa to attend Hogwarts. He was still in negotiations with McGonagall, negotiations that had so far lasted far longer than they had with Michelangelo, a boy, and Ginny was about ready to go to the woman herself and give her a piece of her mind. There was no wonder why Clarissa was so upset, when everyone around her made it seem like she was now a disease spreading menace.

“What color would you like, miss?” the woman caring for Clarissa's nails finally asked, Clarissa's nails long now, but rounded off, womanly looking and healthy but still tasteful, not cheep or gaudy.

Clarissa looked over at Ginny, who was getting hers done in a simple nude with a French tip, and pressed her lips together.

“Get whatever it is you really want,” Ginny said, knowing Clarissa was obviously torn between what she wanted, and what she saw Ginny getting, Ginny being a woman and all, Clarissa feeling pressured to be womanly too.

“Pink,” Clarissa said sheepishly and the woman smiled.

“We have a lot of pinks. Why don't you hop over there, careful with your nails, and pick what shade you like the best,” the woman said so understandably as Clarissa looked bright-eyed at her. She practically skipped over to the wall of polishes and looked side to side, scanning for the perfect shade. She knew the color, it was a princess pink, very particular, and she would recognize it the moment she saw it.

“Your daughter is precious,” Ginny's nail practitioner praised. Ginny, having looked over her shoulder to watch Clarissa, now looked back at the woman. She didn't refute that, didn't tell the woman that Clarissa wasn't her biological daughter. Clarissa was her daughter, as far as the two of them were concerned, and that was good enough for any Muggle stranger. Besides, with the freckles, it wasn't hard to draw some similarity between the two of them.

“She is, like her daddy,” she agreed, looking back over at Clarissa who had found her shade and stood up on her tippy-toes to reach it. She was dressed down considerably, in a pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt. She still had her own style, however, with a long pink ribbon tied into a large bow acting as a headband to keep her hair back, and pink converse sneakers with lace shoelaces that were absurdly wide and made big bows.

“Excellent choice,” the woman working with Clarissa praised upon receiving the small bottle. “Not much left, this is a popular one.”

“Is there enough?” Clarissa fretted.

“Just about. Looks like you are the last lucky woman to get this color, meaning you can take the bottle with you, see if you can't get one or two touch-ups out of it,” she said and Clarissa looked elated.

“That is lovely, thank you,” Ginny said, knowing the women were absolutely smitten with Clarissa, as was anyone who met the girl. Even when not in the highest of spirits when entering the establishment, the women had flocked to her, drawn to the fair girl with the long pale locks of curling hair, those big silver-blue eyes, that thin but long body. She looked like a little angel fallen from heaven and the women there who dealt with hair and appearances all day long, appreciated Clarissa.

A wash and a style was what Clarissa got, a small trim to remove damaged ends but no one wanting to touch the length, all agreeing her hair was far too beautiful to cut. Clarissa really seemed to appreciate the fawning, and now with her curls more tamed and uniformed than ever before in her life as they shone and bounced, she couldn't help but smile, even though she was feeling tired, and she was experiencing cramps now and then for the first time in her life.

“Thank you, Ginny,” she said once they were walking down the street, hand in hand, pretty nails between them.

“You're welcome. You know I have wanted to do this for a while. Michael's hearing today offering the best opportunity,” she said, kind'a lying, in all honesty rather exhausted herself and would have enjoyed the day in, but trying to make it seem like this wasn't all because of Clarissa's rough morning.

“Do you think everything is going well with Michael?”

“Your father is there with him, so I can't see how anything terrible could happen,” she comforted, giving her hand a squeeze. “Now, I promised some shopping, right?”

“You said for womanly things,” Clarissa said, making a face.

“Well, yes, but those womanly things not all being dreadful. A woman needs all sorts of things. From what I understand, your nana never took you out for, say, bras?” she asked and Clarissa blushed while looking around, as though someone was lurking nearby to shout out to all who had missed it that Clarissa was going to go bra shopping. “Oh, don't blush like that, all little girls look forward to getting their bras.”

“I have some,” Clarissa mumbled, Ginny looking down. Clarissa pulled the collar of her shirt aside some to reveal a thick strap in the dip of her narrow shoulder. Ginny could recognize it as a sort of cottony sports bra, not exactly what she had in mind but probably all Clarissa had been able to get for a long time with her family being so poor for so long.

“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of something pink, with a bow on it,” Ginny said, knowing the word “bow” would perk Clarissa right up. It did.

One stop in a department store and Ginny was able to sit again while Clarissa used the fitting rooms. Ginny couldn't help but think of Draco and Michelangelo when not actively interacting with Clarissa, and she hoped everything went alright. She also mentally grumbled at Narcissa, for not having prepared her granddaughter better for these things. She got the impression the woman didn't want little Clarissa to grow up any more than Draco did.

“I don't want to come out,” Clarissa muttered from within, Ginny right outside.

“You have your shirt on over it, right? Lets see, nothing to be embarrassed about, there isn't even anyone out here,” she said, looking around and finding the area deserted. It was a Saturday afternoon, but a nice summer day. Seemed there weren't many in the Misses section.

“I don't like this one.”

“Well, come out and I can help you. Is it the fit? Or are the straps too long? I can help you adjust everything, or find a better one.”

Clarissa came out with chin down and Ginny stopped talking.

Since when did Clarissa have boobs?

Had the bulky sports bras really concealed this fact that much?

“This one has the padding,” Clarissa tried to explain but it was obvious that while the padding added shape, most of what Ginny was seeing was still her.

“We can look at the ones that are quite so…lifting. There are ones over there that are softer,” Ginny said, not understanding why such a small size meant for young ladies would need an underwire, or be called a “push-up”. Clarissa was wearing a 32A but being so tiny around certainly helped make it noticeable that she had been secretly developing right under their noses.

Clarissa retreated back into the fitting rooms with different styles, and seemed a little more comfortable as she came out in one of the non-supportive varieties. Still not wearing a sports bra made it obvious that she was really a little woman now, but it was a little more subdued this time, and Clarissa seemed to approve.

“Thank you, Ginny,” she mumbled as she stood with her, at the check out, feeling a little guilty for costing her so much when this was all so unnecessary.

“You're welcome,” Ginny said, paying the woman and taking the overly fancy shopping bags stuffed with tissue paper to conceal their purchases. “I think new underwear calls for some new dresses,” she said, turning into the first boutique they past once out on the street and Clarissa stopping.

“What?”

“Come-on, I threw in that push-up bra when you weren't looking because it has removable straps. You need a princess dress now to go with it,” she said and Clarissa looked horrorstruck and embarrassed all at once. “Don't look at me like that, god you are as bad as your father with all that blushing. What did that Nana of yours do to you all?” she laughed as she gabbed Clarissa by the arm to lead her in. She was going to have a word with Narcissa, all joking aside, later.

-----------------

Draco was climbing the front steps to the library achingly, the potion Harry had given him out of his system now some twenty-four hours after first taking it, and him feeling those broken ribs now, his right hip inflamed again, his left arm aching. Michelangelo was following after him, hands tucked deep into his pockets, rather broody looking.

“Can't I hang out at Quality Quidditch Supplies or something?”

“No,” Draco said quite simply as he reached the door.

“Why not?” Michelangelo whined.

“Because you're still in trouble,” Draco whined back in mocking, pointing for his son to enter, which he did obediently, but still brooding. Draco followed after, about to start a shift and Michelangelo with him still.

“Just find a book and read,” Draco said as he walked past his son to head towards the back where his robes housed and his timecard would be found. He returned now in purple to find Michelangelo sitting at one of the tables, flipping through a book while under a lamp.

“That's a good boy,” Draco praised as he sat at his desk and noted the heaping pile of paperwork to be found. Paperwork, always paperwork, always stacked higher than he was tall. Was this his curse? His lot in life? It seemed so unfair. Draco placed his glasses on, pulled out a fresh quill, and grabbed the top paper, prepared to just dive in and have at it because the papers were not about to approve and sort themselves.

Malfoys loathed paperwork.

Michelangelo sat there, with his cheek propped up on his fist, flipping through the boring book for a while, but the silence was getting to him, his father scratching away at the parchment and the paper so irritating, the slow ticking of the overhanging clock a reminder of how slow time was passing. Michelangelo looked around from his seat, noticing no one in there and taking in the scenery. The large portrait of Dumbledore looked down at him with inquisitive blue eyes over his half-moon spectacles, like he recognized Michelangelo and Michelangelo had to look away, feeling those eyes boring into the back of him. He had seen Albus Dumbledore countless times in the Headmistress' office at Hogwarts, the sleepy painting occasionally chatting him up and Michelangelo adamantly ignoring him. He didn't want to have anything to do with the creepy old man his father had once tried to kill.

Oh-yes, Michelangelo knew about that.

He hadn't really been aware of his father's doings until he had gotten into Hogwarts, his Nana certainly never saying anything on the matter as to why he was in Azkaban, and his father didn't talk about the war…ever. Entering Hogwarts, not as a Malfoy, had made it possible for Michelangelo to hear others talk about his father without them keeping their voices down or opinions to themselves, not knowing that who they were gossiping to was the son of the man they were talking about. Michelangelo had heard so many terrible things, and had gone to the library there to read up on what he could, to see why it was his father was hated so, and what he had found had startled him.

Michelangelo looked over at his father as he worked.

He looked so unthreatening, so quiet and meek. He found it hard to picture his father as a servant of the Dark Lord, burning down homes and posting the Dark Mark above, torturing people, terrorizing Muggles, killing. The idea that his father had murdered before did make Michelangelo's insides squirm a little, so he looked away, so his father would not pick up on that. He had never talked to him about it, never included that aspect of his school year in any of his letters of visits, but he knew that his father knew, that he knew of his past, being a mind reader and all. He had asked if there was anything he wanted to know, something he wanted to talk about or have explained, and he had said no. He knew he could at any time ask his father, and he would answer him, but he really just didn't want to know.

Or did he?

Michelangelo looked around a little bit, then down at his boring text, then sighed.

Draco responded to that.

“Don't start fretting about now, we haven't been here for twenty minutes yet and there are still seven hours and forty-three minutes to go,” he said quite blandly, not looking up from his work.

“How can you stand this tedium?”

“The sacrifices I make for my family,” Draco said quite simply as he grabbed another paper and started reading it. Michelangelo sighed, beat his back against his chair a few times, and abruptly stood up. Draco's eyes were all that moved as he looked over at his son.

“Don't you go wondering off,” he warned.

“I'm just going to look for a book,” Michelangelo drawled, stuffing his hands in his pockets and strolling off to graze the books as he walked past, heading towards the stairs so as to investigate the other levels.

People came and went quietly, but nothing noteworthy happened for a long while.

“Hey Malfoy,” Oliver said as he came in with a stack of books from the far back of the library.

“Afternoon,” Draco responded quite blandly as he worked diligently at his papers, hoping to make a noticeable dent in his inbox before he took his lunch.

“Is there a shadow of you floating around here today or is it bring you child to work day and I was unaware?” he asked, Michelangelo on the floor of the second level, sitting right up against the railing so his legs were hanging off the balcony, his arms draped over the bars, looking bored out of his mind.

“More like bring you spoiled-rotten-punk to work day,” Draco said, looking up and past Oliver and Oliver turning to follow his gaze. Michelangelo saluted him unenthusiastically and Oliver gave a small wave, only then realizing Michelangelo was there with them.

“If Mr. Crudelis sees him here you know he is going to pitch a fit,” Oliver warned and Draco just removed his glasses as he leaned back, clearly stretching his back but his face revealing how much pain that caused him. His ribs were back to hurting, a lot. Breathing hurt. Breathing shouldn't hurt.

“My son is just here to read, like anyone else. Right son?” Draco said, barely raising his voice but Michelangelo knowing he was being spoken to.

“Yeah-yeah,” he sighed, getting up with much grumbling to go back to looking at the books so as to not reek of loitering. This was such a waste of a perfectly good Saturday.

“Why did you bring him? I know you requested the later shift for his trial-”

“Hearing,”

“But did it go that bad?”

“It went fine. I have to pay for the damages and he needs to do community service and see a counselor, but it's fine. He is here now because my mother is not home, and with Nymphadora is at work, there is no one to watch him,” Draco explained.

“I don't need a baby-sitter,” Michelangelo called from somewhere within the library.

“Yes you do, or I wouldn't be paying a ridiculous amount of money in fines,” Draco called back quite blandly, quieting Michelangelo up quite effectively.

“Ginny isn't home on her day off?”

“She is spending the day with my daughter,” Draco said, not wanting to think about that mess, though knowing he owed his little-girl a big hug when he saw her next. What he owed Ginny was more than just a hug. A full body rubdown, starting with her feet, was likely in order. Sadly, with Draco's bum left hand, he doubted that would be a service he could offer. Maybe a snuggle? “I can't tell you where my mother is,” Draco said as though to distract himself from the subject of his daughter or just changing the topic. “I get the feeling she is up to something, but I can't be sure. She knows Occlumency, so she can effectively keep me out if she desires, and she clearly does.”

Michelangelo was wondering deeper into the library, to let his father talk with Wood in private, taking his father's orders quite civilly and finding a book to read. He had an idea of what he wanted to look for, Clarissa's mention bringing this fresh into his mind. He browsed the volumes, looking for the number on the binding that matched the serial he had jotted down on the back of his hand. The card catalogues were quite efficient. He indicated a name, or topic he wanted a text on, and it pulled up all sorts of instances where the desired is referenced or subject. He had picked out the most promising, having all day to search should this fail to meet his expectations, so he strolled slowly, well into the Qs at this point, looking frequently at his hand.

Seeing the call-number QN-638 Michelangelo stopped. He looked at the relatively lengthy text and debated on the best means of tackling its de-shelving. He was tall, but not that tall yet. He reached up, the book above his head and seeming heavier by the inch as he pulled it. Ducking, the book fell, missing him, however, to slam on the marble floor behind him with a resonating slap and thud. Michelangelo looked around real quick, and when no one called or appeared, he squatted down to fetch it. It was ridiculously heavy. He flopped down onto his bum to just pull the book onto his crossed knees and let it cradle there in his lap as he opened it and flipped to the index.

Back in the main hall, Draco eventually noted his son's absence, brushed it off for a while, but then grew concerned. It was a very real possibility that he had just found a book and was curled up somewhere within the library, reading it, but Draco would rather have liked Michelangelo to remain within his sight. He didn't think his son would get into trouble, but he certainly believed his son couldn't help himself when he was bored.

Draco had several patrons with him at the moment, therefore he couldn't leave, so he just looked up frequently, hoping that each movement that caught his eye would be his son reemerging.

“Heads up, Crabapple alert,” Connor whispered to Draco in passing as he hurried by his desk, arms laden with books.

“Shit,” Draco hissed, straightening his desk and looking across the floor to be sure that it was tidy. Looking up, however, Draco saw Michelangelo up by the painting of Dumbledore, turned away so he couldn't see his face but able to tell Michelangelo was bothered.

“McGucken, how many times do I have to ask for something before it actually gets done?” Mr. Crudelis called in his typical irate tones, marching into the main hall as though he was already certain there wasn't a person in there who would be bothered by his loud entry.

Michelangelo turned upon hearing the name, still trained to a certain extent to respond to it, it being his mother's name and the name he had used in the first half of his first year at Hogwarts.

“Sorry, sir,” Connor replied, arms so full of books it was a wonder how Mr. Crudelis could accuse him of not working.

“Malfoy, have you owled out those notices yet?” he then barked, turning to Draco.

“Most of them, sir.”

“I expected them to be done by now,” he nearly bellowed as Michelangelo leaned over the railing of the balcony above to stare down at them.

“There were over five-hundred notices due, sir. Two hours spent on them would mean I did four notices a minute. I think that is rather impressive, if I may say so myself given the reading, checking, and writing involved with each,” he defended coolly, Mr. Crudelis seemingly not impressed with Draco's fortitude. Maybe if Draco mentioned he was writing right handed, instead of left which was his dominant writing hand, he would be more appreciative.

“I don't need your egotistical back-sass, Malfoy. Wrap up those notices and get on organizing the catalogs and clean up this floor,” he barked, thought the floor tidy as could be desired, him simply flustered and looking for something to complain about.

“And McGucken, get those put where they belong and get me those texts I asked for. How many times must I ask you?”

“At least once more, sir,” Conner said in a hurry, hustling off with his arms looking ready to rip out of their sockets from the weight of the hefty stack of texts he was hauling.

Draco, able with hold in his cringe until his boss was gone, looked up at his son who was peering down at him from above, who had gone unnoticed by Mr. Crudelis. Draco looked up at him, able to read his son's face quite plainly if not his raging emotions quite easily, and knew his son had caught Conner's last name. Draco knew Michelangelo had already drawn some amusement out of the seemingly “coincidental” physical similarities he shared with the man, but he now sense something more from his son, something like betrayal.

Why was his son feeling like he had deceived him?

“Michael,” Draco called up to him as Michelangelo simply turned and fled. He vanished under the Dumbledore painting to hide in some part deeper in the library and Draco wasn't about to let this go. There had to be something seriously wrong for his son to not even confront him on it. He was a very straightforward boy.

Draco abandoned his desk for the moment, grabbed his cane, and followed after his son. The stairs slowed him considerably now that his limp was back in full force, but Draco hobbled quickly, it was something he was practiced at, and he followed in the wake of emotions his son had left trailing behind, giving Draco the means of tracking him down. Like a bloodhound on a scent, Draco marked Michelangelo all the way to the back of the library, where he found him pacing by some shelves so dusty it was obvious the books there had never been taken out.

“Michael, what's wrong?” Draco asked, not prying completely but confused by the emotions he had picked up on his way there. There was so much confusion, hurt, and anger radiating form his son, he knew that couldn't all be from simply learning Conner's last name. McGucken was a distinctive name, but by no means unique. There was no reason to automatically assume Connor was related, or how, given that alone.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Michelangelo demanded snappishly and Draco was taken aback.

“Why didn't I tell you what?”

“You're not stupid, so don't act like it.”

“No, I really do not follow. Remember our little agreement that I wouldn't force my Legilimency on you or your sister? That it was intrusive?” Draco snapped back, his son's tone with him unacceptable.

Michelangelo looked furious, but under that, not even deeply, was hurt. He looked away, knowing his father would be able to sense that much with direct eye contact, but it was too late. Just the act alone of looking down drew Draco's eyes to something far more telling. Draco followed his son's eyes down, and then to a book that lay open, Draco having initially missed it when coming up on his son. Michelangelo took a deep breath and Draco tilted his head to read the page, recognize the photograph. Draco knew his wife instantly despite the fact that he hadn't seen her in years. He closed his eyes and held his breath, piecing it all together then what was wrong, what had happened, what Michelangelo meant.

“Michael,” he sighed, suddenly not angry with his son despite the tones used. He knew his boy was like him, stuck between lashing out in anger, and succumbing to sadness, and unsure which would make him seem weaker.

Michelangelo looked away, crossing his arms.

“Michael, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry? You never tell me who my mother is, you hide me away from the world for years and deny my existence, you tell me that I can't trust what outside people tell me, all while lying to me?” he demanded.

“I never lied to you,” Draco disputed, though sadly.

“Why did you never tell me who she was?”

“I told you her name; I told you how I met her.”

“A name and some circumstances? That's all you felt I deserved?”

“It was all I thought you could handle at first, when you were so young.”

“So what, you felt it would be better that I find out who she was through other people, or in a fucking library while alone? You never told me how old she was, or why she was in Azkaban herself.”

Draco just looked down.

“Why did you never tell me?”

Draco sighed and moved over to the bookcase. He turned to lean against it but then just slid down, down until he was sitting on the floor, the book open to reveal his wife staring up at him. Her picture was sassing him with her eyes, but not like she knew him. She just started towards the dark ceiling with those hooded mischievous eyes. Michelangelo looked taken aback by his father's silent response.

“I didn't want you to find out like this, honestly, I didn't want you to find out about it at all,” he admitted.

“Why?”

“It is hard to talk about, and I couldn't see how you knowing would make anything better,” he explained, gesturing at his son who was so distraught.

“I had the right to know.”

“I know. I realized you were getting old enough to be explained everything, and to learn who she was, but it didn't change how hard it is to talk about. I just couldn't do it.”

“So, you are saying all that is true then?” Michelangelo asked, indicating the book and what it contained.

Draco shook his head.

“No?”

“I don't know, Michael, I just don't…know. Some days I feel like I knew her in a way no one else knew her, that she showed me something she hadn't with anyone else before. Other days…insecure days…I feel like she played me on, like she did so many others. Sometimes I feel like she would have stuck around if she had lived, sometimes I think she left us long before her death,” Draco explained in a detached voice as he looked at something beyond his son's knees.

Michelangelo didn't know what to say to that. Given what he had read about his mother he could see how she was quite possibly a bad person, but he had always believed that despite everything, that she had at least loved them, that she had cared. It seemed his own father was not even sure of that, and that was not comforting. If her love hadn't been that obvious, he seriously doubted her sincerity.

Draco looked up at his son, knowing what he was thinking.

“Don't believe, because of what you read, that she never loved you, Michael. Regardless of her feelings or lack thereof for me, you were…are her son, and she cared about you, and your sister.”

“But, the things she did to werewolves, how can you say she cared-?”

“Because you were her children. It's amazing the things you will do or say to protect them.”

“But you think she left us?”

“Maybe,” Draco said, shuffling a little uncomfortably, part of him still refusing to believe that, part of him angry that he was still protecting her. He spun his ring around his finger.

Michelangelo finally uncrossed his arms in a heavy sigh that meant so many things and he eventually knelt before his father, able to see without reading his mind or emotions how bothered he was. He looked at him, then down at the book, and had to use all in his power to try and block from him what he was feeling. This wasn't the first time he was feeling pity towards his father.

There was nothing said for a while, a long while, but surprisingly little time was passing. It just seemed like forever they sat there together, in that hidden place where Michelangelo had sat and read about his mother, learning of her for the first time. Draco didn't really know what to say to his son, and Michelangelo didn't know how to confront him about his mother despite what he so earnestly wanted to know. The book had left him with more questions in the end than answers, or just many many new questions while answering so few.

Michelangelo just leaned in, and Draco raised an arm to let him fall under it, so he could hug him, Michelangelo knowing how much comfort his father found in hugs, and honestly needing some comfort himself at the moment. Draco kissed the top of Michelangelo's head and rubbed him arm as his chin rested where he had just kissed, waiting, waiting for something, he wasn't sure what.

“Was hearing Conner's name what set this off, and this was just a treat meant to be saved for later?” Draco asked, Michelangelo stiffening slightly. “You weren't going to tell me what you were reading about while here, just silently brood about it and keep it all to yourself until it drove you mad and you snapped at me or Ginny. You wanted to hold this in until Ginny got on your nerves, but Conner set you off,” Draco said, it not a question.

Michelangelo looked down.

“You can't keep treating Ginny this way. Don't put me in the position to have to choose you, or her, Michelangelo, because you know I can't, and you know it is not fair,” he said, only a little harsher, mostly keeping that wounded tone close to the surface so as to drive the point home.

“Who is Conner? He shares a last name, but that's not all. I noticed his appearance from the moment I saw him that night when he showed up at our house, him being one of the only other guys I had ever seen with hair like my own and thinking how odd that was that he was also a redhead, like I knew my mother to be. I brushed it all off as an interesting coincidence, but now with the name, I can't help but feel-”

“That he is related?” Draco finished. Michelangelo nodded. “He isn't an uncle, or cousin, or anything like that,” Draco started to say, but realized Michelangelo was letting out a breath of relief, as though he was saying they were not related at all. That left what Draco said next to impact with the most shock value available. “He's your brother,” he said, watching as Michelangelo expectedly reacted with stunned eyes, pulling back so he could look up at his father. Draco imagined that's what his own face looked like that night Connor had shown up and given him the news.

“Brother?” he repeated, looking back as though Connor would come into view at that very moment and assure him it all wasn't true, or was. Michelangelo's expectancy, however, was just a means of looking away from his father, to try and wrap his mind around all this.

“Half-brother. He is your mother's son. I only just met him a handful of days ago, though he has known of us for a while. He kept his distance, feeling we were happier without him, better off or something, but finally came forward when it would just-so-happen that he and I would be working together. I swear to you I never knew of him,” Draco said, as though this one thing he didn't keep from his son would win him back some ground with him.

“He is older than me,” Michelangelo said, trailing off, trying to create a mental timeline in his mind. It was clear Connor was not the result of their mother running off to have a different family, so did that mean she ran out on a family prior to meeting his dad?

“Connor is actually older than I am,” Draco explained, able to find some kind of twisted joy out of seeing Michelangelo's reaction to that news.

“Older?”

“Your mother was 16 years older than me, Michael, you know that, I assume you read it,” he said, Michelangelo nodding but frowning his brow at his father. “Connor was born to your mother about the same time I was born to my own. Connor was not raised by her, he was raised by his grandparents, your grandparents, because she was so young.”

“She, she didn't stick around to raise him?”

“It's one of the reasons why on insecure days I feel like she left us, Michael. I just don't know what is real, and what was a lie, what is the truth, and what is something my own mind created,” Draco said, sounding insecure again. His son didn't know of the Schizophrenia he was battling with, supposedly battling with, and Draco didn't want to have to explain to his son his confusion was do to the adverse effects of such a condition. It left Draco feeling unsure of himself, and inept. He hugged his son a little tighter, despite the pain curling up like that caused him.

Michelangelo wasn't as ignorant of his father's struggles as Draco would have liked to believe, but said nothing. He knew it would only hurt him to know his perceived weaknesses were not as well concealed as he would have liked. Michelangelo hugged him then, feeling this situation with his mother was just one more thing that seemed so unfair that his father had suffered through.

Draco felt terrible that Michelangelo found out this way, Michelangelo felt terrible that the simple memory of his mother hurt his father so much.

They sat there together, just feeling terrible all around, hugging because there was nothing that could be said between them. Pain shared was pain halved.

“Tell me,” Draco said softly, sitting in his cell, hugging his knees and holding his toes.

“Tell you what?” Christina laughed, pacing her own cell like a caged tiger, like always.

“Do you…” Draco said, losing his nerve and looking down for a moment.

“Do I?” she prompted, encouraging him to continue. It was March, Draco had been there for only three months, but he was feeling odd, feeling strange. He wasn't sure what it was, but he thought he had an idea. It was ridiculous, preposterous, and absurd. It was silly, delusional, and excessive, but that seemed to be the way of his life.

“Do you, love me?” he dared to ask, looking up at her knowing she would have to look him in the eyes if she looked over at him at all. She predictably did given the abruptness of his question. Her hooded green eyes met his silver ones instantly and she was trapped. He was working on his Legilimency, but he was struggling without guidance. He could capture her eyes, but she was so strong willed naturally, it was always a challenge to hold them.

“Why would you ask me that?” she asked, frozen in place in the middle of her mid-morning pacing. They would be going out to the pit in a matter of hours, and Draco had had this on his mind for days now, but he had chosen now to confront her on it given their history of experiences in the pit. The first time they had gone to the pit they had kissed passionately, the next time she had taken his virginity. Given that pattern of escalation, he found reason to address the matter before being in her vicinity again. She still seemed surprised by his boldness.

The last time he was in the vicinity of her he had kissed her, held her, put his hands on her in ways he never had another woman. It had been so brief, so abrupt, he was left confused at first, then to wonder. He felt something odd, shame at first, or so he though, embarrassment for being so inexperienced, disappointed because they hadn't had a chance to do it properly in a bed, or be gentle and loving. Now he felt something blossom from that, something he was confused over. He loved Ginny, every part of his soul knew that, but she was not a part of his life anymore, nor would she ever again, yet still he loved her, probably always would…but something was growing in him that seemed to conflict with that, compete, something similar though had nothing to do with her, something that had him asking Christina this question now.

“I, I was just wondering, given what we did…” he said, trailing off, not wanting to say what it was that they had done, that modesty his mother had instilled in him so overpowering.

Christina looked over at him, like she was saddened by this, but Draco missed it because he was looking down at his toes.

“I don't want to put myself out on a limb here or anything, but I have just been feeling…odd lately, and I was wondering if you felt it too, or not at all, or if I'm thinking what I feel is one thing when it's really something else and you can enlighten me as to what, because I know I'm certainly confused,” he mumbled, chewing on his bottom lip and closing his eyes.

“Draco,”

“I know I must sound stupid, and I know everyone says I'm just a boy, but I'm not, I'm a man, and what I feel is something more than just a sickness in my stomach like everything else…and I know you probably were just taking advantage of a choice situation, and I know I am younger than you by a considerable amount and am probably making you uncomfortable right now, and I know you are leaving in five months and want nothing more than to put a substantial and permanent distance between yourself and this place so it would be stupid to ask you to think of me when you are so close to finally being free, but I need to know…do you, even just a little bit, love me?” he asked, finally looking back up at her with those last words.

Christina was standing in her cell, tall and utterly still. Her hair was ruffling slighting in the cold breeze that swept in through the high windows as her chest slowly swelled and fell with each careful breath. Draco looked at her and sensed her reluctance to answer, saw her frowning eyebrows, and pursed his lips together in an sad smile, looking down before his face finished crumbling, closing his eyes and feeling stupid for having asked at all.

Of course she didn't. He felt so stupid and he had probably ruined the last few months he had with her. Draco felt his bottom lip quivering, and fought the childish sob that wanted so much to escape him has he hugged his knees and held his toes.

“Love is a really strong word, kiddo,” she said, her voice almost distant in his ears. Opening his eyes his sight was blurry from the tears that were welled up in the barely open slits. “I care about you,” she finally said, Draco closing his eyes and that causing the tears to slide down his cheeks, his hair hopefully hiding them, for now.

She cared, in a `lets be friends' sort of way, he knew it, and he felt like a fool. Just because she had sex with him didn't mean she loved him. He wanted the act to always be a physical expression of one's love for another, but that was hardly the case for most people nowadays it seemed. His mother would be ashamed of him, but it wasn't like she would ever know, he wasn't sure if she was even alive, where she was. Surely she wanted more for him than this, but he had fallen short of her expectations years ago really, why he still clung to his pathetic propriety was beyond him. Just accepting that he was just a filthy, unwanted, undesirable werewolf would probably be best, save him from being disappointed further, because nothing but hurt, pain, and disappointment could come of his life, particularly now that his life was housed in Azkaban.

“But…I guess I can say that I do,” she finally finished after that pause.

Draco was ready to sob before he was able to register what she had said. He swallowed hard and dared to open his eyes. They darted side to side rapidly as he replayed her words, realizing what the answer to his question was. He then looked right up at her sharply, forgetting that he had two tear tracks on his face, and saw Christina sitting on her bed, up against her bars, still looking sadly at him, but smiling now.

“My fair-haired boy,” she said, holding a hand out he would never be able to reach, Draco comforted by the act alone. When it struck him that she had admitted to loving him, that feeling in his stomach worsened rather than got better, but he felt less empty, and sniffed back his tears to grace her with a small smile. Christina always loved it when he smiled.

The darkness then took him and it was absolute. The screaming Draco could hear was barely more than echoes in his ears as there was no visual to go along with anything that was happening. Then the pain hit and Draco was unable to even pay attention to the shouting and screaming.

Draco couldn't explain this pain at first. He had experienced much in his life, from many different sources, but never in the base of his stomach like this, way down low in his core, almost like someone had taken a fist full of his intestine and twisted it.

He rolled over and coughed, and something came up. He was sure if he vomited at first, but he realized quickly that he hadn't because he knew the taste of blood well. On his side now he curled his knees up to his chest while hugging his stomach in his arms and he moaned a sob, not sure what had happened, what was hurt, or who was screaming. Opening his eyes he could see white now, rather than black. It was the sunlight; he was out in the pit. Draco couldn't remember going out to the pit. He remembered talking to Christina, he remembered her words, but now she was screaming, why was she screaming?

The ground was cold, the wetness was soaked up by his shirt, but something was wrong, his trousers were missing. Trying to orient himself by moving his legs, he felt them tangled around his knees.

“Back up, now, don't touch him!” a man was shouting, Draco opening his eyes and seeing a dark silhouette standing over him in all that whiteness. He could make out arms waving like he was trying to clear the area and Draco couldn't understand at first why no one was helping him when it was so obvious that he was hurt. Couldn't they see the blood?

The blood.

He knew then why no one was helping him: he was bleeding. Why was he bleeding? Why did he hurt so deep down? Why were his trousers missing. Had be been with Christina? Did someone come upon them and hurt him? He couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember? Why did his head hurt so badly?

“Draco, Draco, you're alright,” he heard Christina shouting at him as he groaned and rolled over some, the front of his overly large shirt covering him at least, modest to the last he was grateful for that. Laying on his back, however, it felt like the bones of his head were sliding backwards, like they were not solid.

“What, what happened?” he tried to ask, but it was going dark again.

“He won't ever touch you again, Draco, I promise,” she said, grabbing his wrist.

The screaming was louder now, and Draco grabbed the hand that was holding his wrist, telling Christina to calm down, that he was alright.

“Draco, Draco! Oh god, you're awake? Can you hear me?” she seemed to scream at him, or shout. She was shouting, the screaming was not of people, they were sirens. When did Azkaban install sirens? They never had.

“What? What happened?” Draco asked, wanting an answer this time.

“Please back up ma'am,” a man said, looming over Draco then like a shadow as before and placing something in his ears and something cold and metal against Draco's chest. Draco could barely see. The flashing lights helped him realize he wasn't in Azkaban, however, and the pain shooting down his side as the man pressed down on his abdomen ripped him to consciousness faster than anything.

“Draco, you're alright,” Ginny said, Draco looking up at her with only his eyes because his neck was stabilized and immobile. He had some kind of brace on. When had he ever worn a neck brace?

Draco was beyond confused.

“Ginny?” he asked, having thought it was Christina with him but clearly wrong. His brain couldn't wrap itself around that. He had been in his cell just that morning, talking to Christina, then he blacked out and was on the ground, half naked and hurt in the pit…now he found himself still hurting but in a totally different location all together, with Ginny Weasley of all people. What was gong on?

“I'm here, Draco, I was called right away after the accident, don't worry, everything is fine, Michael is fine,” she assured, panting as she ran along side him. He was laying flat on his back, looking up, and he was moving, like someone had him on a trolley. Draco's mind was trying to catch up, but just couldn't. There was such a darkness, and it was pressing in on his vision.

“Michael?” he said, remembering the name, knowing it was important, but all he could remember was Azkaban.

“Your son, Draco…don't you remember?” she asked but didn't get to pursue her answer because Draco was shoved into the ambulance then, the legs of the gurney collapsing and folding up with a clank, Ginny pushed back by a man who was clearly caring for Draco.

“You need to ride with the boy,” he said before climbing in. The doors were closed and the ambulance took off within the moment. Ginny stood there, with her hands over her mouth for a moment before turning and rushing to the second ambulance that was parked some feet away, in not so much of a hurry.

“There you are,” the man said, Michelangelo hissing as he recoiled, the man just smiling. “You will likely have a scar, but hey, they build character. Look what it did for Harry Potter,” he said, as though hoping to make Michelangelo smile, but it didn't work. Michelangelo was sitting on the back end of the open ambulance, several cuts and nicks down the left side of his face from broken glass, and a particularly nasty gash on the left side of his forehead, mirroring much that of Harry's, even in the slightly lightning-like shape, though it was a little more jagged and accidental for Michelangelo, where as Harry's was almost exquisitely formed.

“He alright?” Ginny asked the mediwizard on call, dressed as a Muggle and tending to the young werewolf. Ginny's eyeliner had blotted to become raccoon-ish under her eyes due to her tears, and her nose was red. Michelangelo too looked worse for wear, around his eyes red, lip swollen, scuffs, cuts, but otherwise seemingly fine.

“A few bumps and cuts, and a bruised liver that will cause him some pain for a while, but nothing serious. Bones as strong steel this kid has, eyes contracting evenly with light, no neck or spine injury. Was wearing his seatbelt, smart kid,” he said, smiling over at Michelangelo and handing him an unwrapped red lollypop.

“What happened?” she asked, looking to Michelangelo for the answer. He had the candy in his mouth and he was looking down for a moment before he used his bandaged hand to pull it away and sigh.

“He had a memory,” he said, Ginny placing her hand over her mouth again. “He spaces out, you know that. He was driving, god we were almost home. He had been silent for most of the trip which I knew wasn't good. I knew that if I kept him taking and interacting he wouldn't daze off, but I felt bad, felt like he needed his space. I didn't think…the light was red and he went ridged,” Michelangelo said, finally sounding angry by the end. Ginny looked to the mediwizard who was busying himself with his supplies, bagging up everything that might have even the smallest trace of blood on it, flicking his wand as though oblivious to the conversation but aware of Ginny's eyes on him.

“Is Draco okay?” she asked him, and he sighed. He had been the first on the scene, been the one called in when it was confirmed that this needed magical care. He had pulled Michelangelo out but not dared move Draco due to him being unconscious.

“He responded to the pinch tests, he could feel pain everywhere they tried it so they don't think he is paralyzed, but like the boy said, he had gone ridged before the crash, potentially making his injuries more severe given how unforgiving his body would be in absorbing the impact and in response to the airbags. The fact that he was injured extensively prior to this worries us. A cracked rib thrown into a car-accident can puncture a lung. We immobilized his spine and neck to reduce the risk of aggravating any injury he might have, just as a precaution, and he is being taken to St. Mungo's to be examined. From what I saw it looked like a simple head wound, but there could be internal damage.”

“Oh god,” Ginny sobbed, Michelangelo looking down, unsure of how to make her relax and worried, the fact that she was carrying his baby brother or sister more than enough to cause concern for him when he saw her in such a state. Clarissa was back home with their nana, Ginny ripped from preparing dinner to come out here just a few blocks away and feel as helpless as she honestly was in this situation.

Michelangelo felt terrible, like his curiosity had hurt his father so much that it had lead to his distraction and resulting car accident. He stuck his blood-flavored lollypop back in his mouth and looked down, feeling like he was always the one who made everything so much worse.

I DIDN'T KILL DRACO! He is fine, I promise you. Anyone who has been in a car accident knows that on the scene they take every precaution, so it SEEMS worse than it is.

Why a car accident, Raine, why are you doing this to us?

It's a means to an end, I assure you.

I would write my typical chapter summery and post it on my LJ for all who care to enjoy, but my life is a bit hectic at the moment, and I just can't spend the time. I didn't even read this over before posting, which I normally do. This is how my final edit left it, hope nothing terrible was overlooked.

Angst? Who me? Never in this fic.

-->

Fallen Angel

Chapter 14

“We were really worried,” Clarissa moped as she curled up with her daddy on the hospital bed, Draco almost holding her in his arms, but his arms so laden in tubes, wires, bandages, and one strapped to a board while the other still in its cast that it prevented that.

“I'm sorry about all this, you know how I hate to worry you,” he said, using his nose to rub against hers in an Eskimo kiss, comforting her the only way he knew how, nuzzling her like a wolf. Ginny eventually came in and had Ron scoop the sleeping Clarissa up off Draco's bed so she could finally talk to him, Ron having once again dropped everything in his life to rush to his sister's side, and Draco's. He hated to admit it, but he was actually growing fairly attached to the ferret. It was now a bright and early Sunday morning…it had been a long night.

“Hey,” she said softly, coming up along side the bed.

“Hey,” he answered in a mimicked light fashion, looking up at her with his red-rimmed eyes.

“You need to stop doing this. I know you love the attention of us tending to you and all, but seriously,” she said and Draco smiled at her, using his fingers on his left hand to brush her thigh, unable to move more than that and glad he was on so many pain medications that he was pretty sure he could fly if he weren't strapped down to his bed, because he had just laughed a little and he knew his chest was too messed up at the moment to appreciate it.

“Sorry, you know me, have to make every day count, upping the last, trying to outdo myself,” he said, voice soft.

“Ever been in a car accident before?” she asked, sitting down so Draco was no longer running his cold fingertips across her skirt and she could hold it in her two very warm hands.

“Can't say I have,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Well, you can check that off your list then,” she said, a sad smile unseen by Draco as he lay there. She waited for a moment, and when he didn't make another joke, she took a deep breath. “Do you remember what happened?” she asked. Draco, without making a sound and barely a movement, communicated his lack of elation at the topic choice. “Please, babe.”

“I don't remember anything beyond talking to Michelangelo in the back of the library, and from what I understand that was around two. If the accident was on my way home then I guess I would have to say there is a bit of a gap leading up to the event.”

“Michelangelo said you went ridged, that you had a memory,” she said and Draco made an indignant whining noise he sometimes used with his mother when she tried to get him to do something he didn't want to do. Ginny knew he didn't want to talk about this, but pressed on. “Did you? Draco, this is important.”

“I could have killed him,” Draco said, unable to cry due to massive amounts of drugs in his system, but that feeling in the pit of his stomach and deep in his heart still as painful as any injury he could ever sustain.

“You weren't going that fast, you both had seatbelts on, it was a minor accident really,” she assured, not wanting Draco to think of the worst when that's not what happened, not the case. She didn't want him to dwell on what-ifs or blame himself.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he demanded, almost sobbing, his arms unable to hold and cover his face like he wanted, like he needed. He felt so trapped, not just because he was strapped down, but in a body that was failing him.

“It's called anterograde amnesia, Draco, and it is when new events contained in the immediate memory are not transferred to the permanent or `long-term' memory,” Dr. Valensclaro said as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. Draco's face immediately shifted from agonizing confused sorrow, to wrathy anger. Ginny knew this temper and mood swing well.

“Oh-no, no, no. You get the fuck out of my room, you bastard,” Draco said, trying to move but unable to. His ankles and wrists were strapped down to the bed and he had no use of his arms.

“I'm sorry, Draco, I never meant to hurt you, I have only ever had the best of intentions.”

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” Draco repeated, pulling at his feet but unable to free them, the leather straps tight, and strong.

“Draco, don't, you'll hurt yourself. Please, Dr. Valensclaro was asked to come here -by me. Please,” Ginny said, Draco looking over at her, victimized all over again.

“You asked him to come here? What the fuck?”

“Draco, he can help you.”

“Help me my balls,” he said, then rounding his head to look back over at the good doctor. “You are the one who told the Ministry that I'm barmy. These straps are cute, but I'm not one for brown leather. Didn't they have anything in black? They would match my shoes better,” he growled, Dr. Valensclaro just sighing and shaking his head.

“Draco, you cannot remember what happened because you slammed your head against a car's window hard enough to shatter the glass and rip open your head, but you know far better than I do that you have suffered from blackouts in the past without the aid of massive head-trauma, and that is why I am here and not a healer. Your issue here is not physical, that is just a consequence. No, your issue is mental, and I think it's time we took a serious step towards addressing that,” he said, sitting down in the only other chair in the room.

“I am not crazy, I didn't do anything loony tonight -I ran a red-light. That was just plain stupid on my part, now may I go? A concussion and some bruised viscera have never kept me in a hospital before, these straps are not necessary.”

“They are, because you keep trying to leave,” the good doctor argued.

“I have not, well, until now,” Draco argued.

“Draco, you tried to leave three times, they had to sedate you,” Ginny said, as though worried that he couldn't remember the fuss he had made a little over two hours before. Draco looked at her, his eyes then getting that familiar shadow of helplessness like he was asking her to tell him that that wasn't true, because if she did then he wasn't crazy.

“Draco, I think it's time we tried treating your…condition, with a few medications. Nothing drastic at first, just something to help you relax. Anxiety, mood swings, difficulty sleeping, blackouts, flashbacks, delusions, paranoid hallucinations, these are all things you have been suffering from, and they all stem from one common source.”

“I am not schizophrenic,” Draco snapped.

“Draco, just listen to me, I'm not belittling you, and I'm not your enemy here, being a Legilimens is just a double-edged sword. You need a little help relaxing, and coping, that's all, and that's why you came to see me in the first place, yes? A few pills a day, that's all I'm saying. A few pills and seeing me more than once a week and we could see some very positive results very quickly, Draco, I swear. I think doing some memory recall under controlled settings will help you. It's something I would certainly like to explore, it being clear that your repression is firmly established, but your memories that want to be acknowledged so strong that they are wreaking havoc on your brain. Hemorrhaging, memory loss…I think even your paranoia stems from this as your response to the helplessness you feel after every blackout. Just let me try to help.”

“I don't want your help.”

“Do it for me, Draco,” Ginny said, grabbing his hand. “Do it for the baby,” she said, leaning over while standing slightly so her stomach was pressing against his curled knuckles. “Do it for your mother, and your two children who are worried ragged as they sleep in the waiting room out there,” she pleaded, looking so close to tears.

Draco looked at her, looked deep into her eyes, and felt his shoulders slumping while his heart sank.

“I never meant to hurt any of you,” he whispered into her mind, Ginny letting a single tear slid down her cheek.

“I know,” she whispered to him, kissing his knuckles again.

“Just some pills then? And some more chatting over tea?” Draco asked, not looking over at the man he was addressing, but looking down at his shackled feet that stuck out from under this pale blue blanket. His toes looked cold, they most certainly were.

“Quetiapine is an antipsychotic that I want you to try,” he said, producing a pad and pen as though this had been is goal all along. Draco glared at them, but was distracted.

“Antipsychotic? You think I'm psychotic?”

“It's just some silly terminology, Draco, please,” Ginny assured, rubbing his shoulder, not wanting him to find an excuse to back out of this. She knew that was what he was trying to do.

“Psychosis, Draco, is defined as a loss of contact with reality, which schizophrenia most certainly falls under.”

“Just fancy words for calling me crazy,” Draco grumbled.

“Not crazy, Draco, just a little unwell, but I'm hoping this will help. It can take seven to fourteen days for it to reach its desired effectiveness, and there are some side-effects, but nothing serious,” he assured, Ginny immediately looking anxious. “Sedation is the primary one. Quetiapine is sometimes used on extreme cases of insomnia due to its sedation effects and the fact it helps fights the hallucinations that can result from the lack of sleep. You might be a little placid and sluggish, indifferent even, but still alert and yourself, I promise. Increased appetite resulting in minor all the way to severe weight gain can occur, but typically dry-mouth, headache, and night sweats are the complains heard most often and they are not serious enough for users to stop taking the pills.”

“I can't put to words how overjoyed I am over this,” Draco drawled, Ginny holding his hand again, the good doctor finishing the script and tearing the page away.

“Draco, this is the best thing you can do for yourself. Taking these pills will help you reach a state where you are sound of mind enough to address what it is that has lead you to this predicament in the first place.”

“So you can cure him then?” Ginny asked. Draco dared not to look at either of them, the doctor's sigh not promising.

“There is no cure for psychosis, unfortunately, only treatment. Dealing with the things that drove him to this point will reduce the frequency and severity of his episodes, and with mild medication for the rest of his life he can be fully functioning and quite happy,” he said, looking down at Draco then.

“There isn't some magic spell that you can mutter and cross-wire my brain to be a little less problematic?” Draco grumbled.

“A brain is far too delicate and complex a thing to treat with magic, Draco, why else would there be a psyche ward in St. Mungo's? Besides, if there were such a spell, you would undoubtedly be immune or resistant to it, only the most firm and sure of curses and hexes able to take on a full-grown werewolf and you know it, otherwise you wouldn't have a mark to show for you accident now, hours later,” he said, Draco sighing, that true.

“The Ministry campaigning to keep me here then?” Draco asked, knowing no one wanted to lock him away more than the Ministry.

“Overnight for observation is what your chart reads, you are to be discharged in the morning,” Dr. Valensclaro said, Draco looking over at him. “Don't look at me, I had nothing to do with it. Seems a Mr. Harry Potter is playing guardian angel for you and he pitched a right fit about two hours ago while you were so heavily sedated.”

“He what?”

“Harry is just looking out for you, Draco,” Ginny assured, brushing his hair out of his eyes and smiling at him. He would be home in the morning, starting a medication that will hopefully reattach him to reality, and everything would be alright. She was left alone with him at that point and she was smiling. Draco looked at her indignantly and she was unable to stop herself from smiling more.

“I nearly die and you are grinning like you just scored a bottle of Felix Felicis,” he accused.

“I'm just happy you're alright,” she said, kissing his hand like he always did hers.

“I'm sorry,” he said, knowing he was not exactly going in the right direction towards reducing her stress levels by cracking his skull open.

“I'm actually happy this happened,” she said and Draco stared at her in that classic blank shock that he reserved just for occasions like this of complete disbelief. “No, I don't mean I'm happy you totaled the car, landed yourself in the hospital with massive head-trauma, and ripped my entire family up from their quiet evenings to rush here.” She was almost laughing. “But if this was what it took to get you to finally agree to the help you need -finally see that you DO need it- then I'm happy it happened. It can only go up from here.”

“Ginny, we have been saying that to each other for weeks now, that is can `only go up', `it can't get worse than this,' `don't worry, this is rock bottom',” he said, Ginny shaking her head at him.

“We made it through this one, and we are together, everyone is okay, I say this is on the up and up.”

“Your optimistic ways disgust me,” he said, Ginny laughing openly at him at that point.

----------------------

It was really late, past visiting hours, and Draco was sleeping. He hated sleeping in hospitals. He hated trying to sleep while strapped down and covered in tubes. He hated the smell and the sounds -but he had finally fallen asleep due to the medications. He was blissfully unaware of those loathsome things…until he was jarred awake.

He gasped when his shoulders were grabbed; trying to orient himself but finding it difficult due to the mess he had unintentionally made of his brain earlier that night. He was left laying there in his bed, wide-eyed and panicked for a moment, before realizing the men standing around him were in Ministry robes. That didn't work at all to quash his fears and panic

“I was wondering when you would be by to see me,” he said, trying to swallow his heart he had apparently hiccupped into his throat.

Had he really thought someone was trying to kill him as he slept in his hospital bed?

Yes.

“We had you held overnight.”

“Obviously your intentions too nefarious to be conducted during normal visiting hours,” Draco stated quite blandly, it all meant to hide his terror. He was strapped down, he couldn't even itch his own nose -much to his own displeasure and he had griped about in length already- he was feeling rather helpless. Was the only pillow in the room under his head? Silly question, the men around him carried wands; anything in the room could easily be transfigured into something to smother him with. He died in his sleep is what they would claim. Draco didn't want to die in his sleep. He hated magic right now. Looking around he wondered if there was a panic button, no matter if he could reach it, at least having one would be a kind gesture. Seems the nurses hadn't extended him that. Typical.

“We didn't want or need any interruption this time,” the man who just entered the room said, Draco looking over at him and his face paling slightly.

“Hello, Adalwulf, how are you?” he greeted, hoping his voice did not sound as terrified as his eyes must have looked.

“Right bit better than you, I would say,” he said as he walked up to be alongside Draco's bed, the room still dark but for the moonlight spilling in through the window to Draco's right. The men already in there continued to loom, as though their presence was only for intimidation. It was working, he would give them that much.

“Good to hear.”

“You can dispense with the pleasantries, Malfoy, you know why we are here.”

“I do,” he said carefully.

“What have you to say for yourself?”

Draco just looked away.

“Well, as standard procedure we will have to-”

“You can't take the baby,” Draco interrupted, snapping his head back to be looking at the man. “Please, I will do anything,” he begged.

“Werewolves are strictly forbidden to breed, Malfoy, you know this, you knew better.”

“It was not intended, a bit of an accident really, but please…don't punish Ginny for my mistake. It would crush her to lose the child, that's why we kept it quiet, so no abortion would be forced upon her. I know that was wrong, and I take full responsibility.” He hated having to say that trying to avoid having an abortion forced upon them was “wrong” of him, but he couldn't let his true feelings on the matter be vocalized and expect them to be in any way understanding and compromising.

“If she hid it knowing full-well the circumstances then she too-”

“She didn't -doesn't- know,” he said, eyes falling at that point, knowing he still hadn't told her about this minor problem their childbearing had caused.

“You didn't tell her?”

“I had hoped for plausible deniability on her part. She really, truly didn't know, I kept her hands clean in the matter.”

“From what I understand the timeline of you two getting together and you two conceiving is rather tight. It did not occur to you when you started seeing her to use some kind of protection?” Adalwulf's tone was patronizing.

“We did, we used precautions, but nothing is one hundred percent,” Draco mumbled.

“Abstinence is.”

“You can't expect me, or anyone, to-”

“We expect you to respect and follow the laws, Malfoy. You signed an agreement nine years ago that you would remain chaste after it was awarded you the right to remain sterile. You were in Azkaban so we didn't press the matter of sterilization since we had gotten so much cooperation out of you,” he said, not needing to say “William” for Draco to know exactly what he was alluding to, “but once out you just had to stick it in the first female that walked by, didn't you.”

“It wasn't like that, it had been over three years…Ginny wasn't just any woman…please, you have to hear me out,” Draco pleaded.

“You can feed us circumstances and excuses all night, Malfoy, but we are here to deal with the facts, the fact that you broke your agreement with us, that you helped conceive a child, that you endangered the integrity of the woman you were mating by potentially exposing her to the disease, and that you admittedly did all in your power to cover it all up.”

“I will do anything to keep the baby, please.”

“That isn't an option.”

“Don't take the baby from Ginny, please don't, she has already lost a baby, a second would destroy her.”

“Are you not simply thinking of yourself in this matter? You too have lost a baby after all.”

“I will pay whatever fines, community service, public flogging, anything, please.”

“You think a simple fine would cover this? Azkaban was what crossed my mind,” Adalwulf said and Draco paled.

“No, not Azkaban, no, this wasn't intended, a mistake, it was just an accident. I did not break Ministry law with any intention-”

“But you still broke Ministry law. Really, Azkaban is the only place I can think to send a werewolf willing to spread their disease, other than maybe an executioner's block,” he said and Draco's heart stopped for a second and then started pounding. He knew this, not only by the feel in his chest, but the machines he was attached to recording it, and seemingly displeased given the sounds they were making.

“Not Azkaban, I can't survive that place again.”

“Is that supposed to be incentive for us to not send you there?” Adalwulf had a cruel smile on his face. His lack of compassion was astounding.

Draco closed his eyes and tried to think, finding that difficult with how extra squishy his brain felt at the moment. This was terrible. Around him were Ministry Wizards from the Beast Department, and Adalwulf was the head, the big man, a person who happened to hate Draco with such a passion that he was drawing some kind of sadistic joy out of watching him panic. The issue at hand was like before: Draco had impregnated a woman, never mind who, and there was now a baby werewolf well on the way. He understood their policies, this was considered no different than if he had -through his own negligence- infected a person, and thus their anger, but he couldn't abide by their method of dealing. They seemed to think he drew some kind of joy out of the fact that his children too were werewolves, like it somehow bonded them closer or that he tried for this when, in reality, Draco's guilt was immeasurable. He knew they would have forced an abortion on Ginny if they had had the chance, and because Draco had hidden this from them they had lost their window of opportunity -again- and were doubly mad. They seemed to have it in their head that he had tried for a baby, hidden that Ginny was pregnant, and was now trying to get out of it. That wasn't the case, any of it. He was willing to take their reprimands, fines, whatever, but he couldn't go back to Azkaban. Did they know he was apparently psychotic? Would mentioning that play to his favor?

“Please, I will pay you anything, do anything you ask of me,” Draco said, hoping to strike up a deal. One thing that hadn't changed about the Ministry of Magic was their desire for gold. The Beast Department was underfunded, and those working within weren't exactly paid well. Extortion was the name of the game in that department, making the wolves -who oftentimes could not hold a job and could barely even support themselves- pay gross amounts of gold or otherwise face harsh penalties, for basically being sick. It was why wolves were often thieves, drug-dealers, and blackmailers. Sometimes they were bounty-hunters, or trappers selling furs. People had such low opinions of them because they really were rather deplorable given what they often did, what they were reduced to doing, to survive. Draco knew that he could buy his way out of this mess, the issue was: how much would they ask for?

“You attempting to bribe me?” Adalwulf asked.

“You trying to extort me?” Draco retorted and the man smiled.

“I have every right to toss your ass right back into Azkaban, an ass I hear the men there really liked, isn't that right?” he said and Draco fought the shudder that ripped through his body. He never wanted to be in such a position again as he was there. Solitary confinement never sounded so nice but for someone who had suffered the rapists who prowled the pit and showers.

“Well then why don't I have a talk with Harry Potter then, he would be the one providing me with a lawyer in the matter and everything,” Draco said, that threat hardly masked, his eyes fierce as he looked up at them from his bed. It was difficult to look intimidating while strapped down on your back to a bed, bandages around your head, machines whistling in their fret over your heartbeat, but Draco was managing fairly well.

“Harry Potter,” the man growled.

“I hear he has taken an interest in our little department as of late. He isn't being a pain in your arse is he? Not getting in the way of you extorting or treating us poor wolfies unjustly? Can't just throw me into Azkaban with him watching now can you?”

“You going to hide behind Potter like a cowardly bitch?”

“To protect my yet-born child? You bet.” Draco' pride took a hit there, but he was in no way ashamed in admitting that he would do anything to protect his family. That was prideful all on its own.

“You will pay for this, heavily,” Adalwulf said, Draco already figuring as much. Draco wasn't sure how he was going to come up with the money this time, but he would, by any means necessary.

He wouldn't let these men take Ginny's baby away from her.

----------------------

“Ow! Balls, Ronald. I'm a person of delicate condition, not cheep luggage, careful!” Draco scowled as he was settled in his wheelchair by Ron. He had -much to Draco's protests- carried Draco up the front steps since Draco wasn't walking at the moment, but Draco seemed unappreciative of the effort, and so Ron felt little inclination towards being gentle in the end.

“Oh-shut-up, you irritating albino-ferret,” Ron grumbled, as he turned to head back down the few steps to offer his arm to Ginny who was climbing out of the car. They had ridden home in Narcissa's car (interior expanded by magic so they could all fit plus Draco's wheelchair in the mini-coop) since Draco had demolished his car and they were back down to just the one. His car had been towed by Muggles but taken to a Ministry of Magic run facility due to the blood contamination. They were having a headache over Draco's accident. The nerve of him to bleed allover the Muggle concrete, what had he been thinking? Draco had few sympathies since he was the one with metal staples in his head. Staples, like the ones Muggles used in construction, only holding his scalp closed and skull together. Draco thought it was darling, in a purely sarcastic way.

“I thought you were supposed to be sedate,” Ron then remarked, Draco wheeling himself quite expertly on the landing in front of the door. Only the large back two wheels used for pushing and steering of his chair were touching, the front two close to his feet were up in the air as Draco leaned back and moved backwards and forwards a little to maintain his balanced in what seemed like a well-practiced manner.

“Takes time for medications to kick in, take effect, and for side-effects to develop,” Draco said as though he were some kind of expert on the matter, and really, he was given the massive amounts of drugs he used to take. Right now he was on so many pain-killers he was pretty sure he could fly, if he didn't have a lap-belt keeping him in his chair, tightened so graciously by Ron. Draco's broken arm didn't even protest his use of it in his current endeavors, which probably meant he was doing little more than aggravating injuries that he couldn't appreciate at the moment, but since he was so chipper, few were going to scold him.

“Come-on, Draco, lets get some food in you,” Ginny said as she approached, arm linked with her brother, smiling down at Draco, glad to have him home, even if he was a wee-bit loopy at the moment.

“Good, I'm hungry,” Draco said, spinning his chair but caught by Ron and pushed inside, Ron not about to wait for Draco to stop tripping, Ginny in no condition to be pushing Draco around.

“Dad,”…”Daddy!” Michelangelo and Clarissa practically squealed upon seeing who was entering. Draco's eyes were a little unfocused, but his smile was big as he welcomed he two babies into a hug, one under each arm as they practically tackled his chair.

“Hey there.”

“How are you feeling?” Clarissa asked.

“So fucking high,” Draco giggled, Ginny clearing her throat and motioning for the kids to not lean on their father so much who was possibly a little too delirious from the pain medications to be allowed to chat with his children right at the moment. Michelangelo managed a smile despite the red bruising on the left side of his face, still dotted with cuts, but Clarissa looked a little worried.

“Come on, some lunch? I'm sure everyone here is hungry,” Ginny said, Michelangelo, Clarissa, and Ron all agreeing, Draco looking over his shoulder at something no one was sure was even there and no one really paying it much mind because, well, he was on a lot of medications at the moment.

Thankfully, Draco metabolized things quickly. Well, maybe it wasn't for the best, but it made him easier to talk to, between all the cursing.

“Oh, fuck!” he groaned, laying in bed, the pain back now that he had fallen from his drug-induced cloud. He had liked his cloud. He missed his cloud. He couldn't remember a damn thing that happened while in his cloud, but he was wagering all he had that it was better than what he was experiencing now, which was gratuitous amounts of pain and agony.

“You're alright,” Ginny soothed, wishing she could do something more to make him comfortable, but there really being little else but being there to listen to him complain. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to talk, it hurt to move, it hurt to think, according to him, and she didn't refute that.

“Alright? I have fucking staples in my head. There is nothing altogether RIGHT about that!” he snapped, not at her but his pain forcing him to have to push past it, his voice and tone elevated as a result.

“They are keeping your precious brains in, sweetie, so show them a little gratitude,” she soothed, blotting his chin with a rag. He was sweating, possibly just from the sheer amounts of pain.

“Grateful my bony arse. What is wrong with Muggles? Who was the first nutter to come up with the proposal, and who was the sadistic fuck who agreed it was a good idea to put STEEL STAPLES in someone? When should that ever be an option?”

“They are easier applied and easier removed that stitches, and stitches are good for closing wounds,” she said oh-so-calmly, almost smiling, happy to have Draco to take care of…happy to have him good mood or not. She was happy to have him because he could have died. She rather have him in a perpetual bad mood for the rest of their lives then be without him. Maybe this was her setting up circumstances which would allow him to get away with just about anything, but she didn't care at the moment. Their baby kicked now and then, and that was a reminder each time how much she needed Draco.

“Sadistic, fucking masochistic, medieval bullshit,” he rambled on, Ginny blotting away at him.

“I know dear. Other than excruciating pain, how do you feel?” she asked, growing more and more accustomed to, and therefore adapting to accommodate (aka be an enabler for) Draco's personality and sarcasm.

Draco coughed a little, groaned, moaned, and whined for a moment, and then opened his eyes to look at her.

“Lucky,” he said and she nodded.

“Yeah,” she agreed, glad he had been so lucky herself.

“No, lucky that I have such an attentive, caring, compassionate, and beautiful bedside nurse to take care of me,” he said, knowing Ginny had thought he meant `lucky to be alive' and smiling at her.

“You are a flirt until the end, aren't you?”

“I will be trying to sweet-talk my way into you knickers on my deathbed, yes,” he said, eyes glinting in a familiar way when his face could not.

“You are not as charismatic as you think you are, Draco.”

“Like hell I'm not,” he said, closing his eyes in a confident but pain filled way.

Ginny knew this was one of the only opportunities she would have to talk to Draco, before he would become sedate due to medications, and they were alone, so she felt the need to have a serious chat.

“Uh-oh, Ginny is getting anxious, whatever else could be the matter?” Draco asked, eyes still closed. Ginny huffed at him reading her and scolded him.

“You cracked your skull open you stupid prat, you shouldn't be taxing that scrambled egg of a brain of yours by reading me.”

“Habitual, you know that. When you stop putting your hands on your hips whilst irate you can rag on me for my consistent tendencies.”

“Smart-ass.”

“Yes I am,” he agreed, eyes still closed.

“I just wanted to talk to you about, you know, options.”

“What kind of options? Sleeping arraignments now that I can't climb stairs, color schemes for the nursery, stalk investments and brokers?”

“About the press,” she said and Draco's face soured a little, eyes still closed. “I know, but as you are well aware, this unhealthy obsession everyone seems to have of you has no end in sight and is feeding off this relentless and catastrophic bad press that is constantly being released. This accident is already all over the papers. Looking for more attention that Draco Malfoy is,” she sighed.

“I know.”

“So, I was wondering if you had any plans to, I don't know, produce some good press?” she asked delicately.

“Like what? Kiss some babies? You know I love babies, but people think it's a matter of taste, not affection. No one will allow me near their baby for kissy-good-press-reasons.”

“I'm being serious.”

“Seriously delusional if you think people will feast upon anything positive that involves me.”

“People are fascinated by you, Draco, and I don't blame them, you have me enthralled.”

“Thank god,” he said, his right hand slipping out of hers to insert itself on the interior of her thigh and her slapping at it, Draco impossible, him smiling quite satisfied.

“And I think they would enjoy a chance to see, well, a different side of you, and your life.”

“And what is your idea? I am to be so doped up on medications from now on; I can imagine any interview I give going something along the lines of me slumped in a wheelchair while blowing bubbles with my own drooling saliva.”

“I was thinking of an interview, and eventually, you know, after the birth, a photo shoot?”

Draco opened his eyes.

“A what?”

“You will have time to heal up, it is only July, I'm not due until mid September…some pictures of you with the baby, front page of all the publications, an interview with the two of us where we -for once- get to tell our side of the story, tell it like it is-”

“No.”

“Draco…”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not Harry-fucking-Potter, I do not sell my baby to the highest bidder for some praising publicity.”

“It's not for the money, Draco, it's for us, so people can see that I'm not someone with some kind of bestiality fetish, and you are not a baby-eating monster. Let them see that we are a couple like any other, except you like your ears scratched,” she joked, scratching behind his ear and Draco not wanting to reward her by showing how much he enjoyed that, but eventually succumbing and tilting his head.

“I don't like having photos taken of me,” he pouted while Ginny slowly scratched.

“We would have a professional photographer, the photos would be nice, tasteful, flattering.”

“I'm not photogenic.”

“Oh, bullshit. I know you are, I have plenty of pictures of you, you just don't like the way you look despite my assurances that I do, so that can't be helped.”

Draco kept his eyes closed that tried to think. He was likely going to need a great sum of gold very shortly if he planned on having this baby at all, so selling the rights to exclusive baby-photos would likely cover that, but something about the act made him feel dirty, like he was extorting his child, his children. He didn't like that idea, he didn't like his new baby being a cashcow, no matter what spin was placed on it.

“Come-on, babe. You will be better, and will have put on a little weight. We will have a beautiful baby, our families all supportive and overjoyed. Why not share all that with the world?”

“I just don't feel it is any of their damn business,” he pouted.

“Not doing this will not make everyone suddenly forget and neglect us, Draco, and people are going to be out for a shot of our baby, relentlessly. Giving the people what they want will help us. This is for us, for the baby, for our families.”

“I can't wait to have this baby,” Draco said, raising his right arm to place his hand on Ginny's stomach, opening his eyes to look at it longingly. He was in so much trouble, it was ridiculous, and yet, still, after everything, he still couldn't imagine taking it back. He wouldn't undue this for the world, because he wanted this baby so bad. Maybe he did belong in Azkaban for this, because he had wanted a baby with Ginny, he just hadn't actually planned on it. It had just happened. Sometimes dreams do come true.

“I'm excited too,” she said, Draco's hand on her belly, their baby less than two months away now. Draco knew he needed to tell Ginny about the predicament at the Ministry, about their blackmailing him, attempting to sterilize him, about their intent on taking the baby and wishing to have forced an abortion on her, but he would wait. Ginny was stressed enough, and he knew the welfare of their child did hinge greatly on Ginny's health. She was far too stressed, far too worried, far too restless and anxious for a woman in her seventh month. Draco would see to it that she got the rest she needed, so that all this trouble they had suffered through so far would not have been in vain.

-------------------

“No, no, no,” Draco said urgently, Connor stopping in what he was doing as he held his dainty teacup in his hands, Draco grabbing his hand to direct him. “You fold your tea, you do not stir it like some kind of trite potion,” he said, helping Connor. The spoon -without touching the sides of the cup and therefore clinking- was gently swished back and forth three times. Connor had come by after work to see how Draco was doing now that it was Tuesday and Draco was nicely settled. Draco had been about to have his afternoon tea, so he had invited his stepson to join him. It was apparent, however, that Draco disapproved of Connor's methods.

“Sorry,” he muttered in an abashed tone, having simply stirred his tea at first and inciting a look of horror on his step-father's face.

“And you gently drag your spoon across the lip of your cup, you do not tap it,” Draco said, eyeing Connor as he was about to do just that and stopped, watching Draco drag his spoon and then mimicking. Draco placed his spoon on the right side of his saucer and held it there gently with his thumb for safekeeping, and Connor, again, mimicked.

“I did not realize there was such a strict etiquette in taking tea,” he said, jolly and Scottish, Draco oh-so-crisp and British if not a little highly medicated.

“The term to `take tea' is used by the lower classes and considered a vulgar expression by the upper. We drink tea, we do not take it,” he said quite crisply, Connor nodding his head a little as though showing he was learning, looking away however because it was a little odd to be schooled in such things. “It is important to know if you are to be a part of this family,” Draco said before taking a refined sip of his tea. He couldn't look more proper despite the fact that his one arm was in a cast, his hair was a mess with a bandage wrapped around his head, and he was lying in bed. “You should have seen all the terrible habits I had to break my Ginny of. I swear her parents raised those children in a barn,” Draco said, shaking his head as he returned his cup to its saucer, the spoon so perfectly held in place there wasn't a shift or clatter. Connor was struggling to lift his cup while pinching his spoon to the saucer with the other hand at the same time. He was sure he was going to either spill, or drop the spoon. Which was worse etiquette?

“I hardly have aspirations to be a part of your family, Draco,” Connor eventually said, trying hard, however, to copy all that Draco was doing in his well-mannered tea drinking, and failing, Draco seeing the effort, however and appreciating it.

“That's a shame really, my son was certainly interested in getting to know you,” he said and Connor blinked at him, spoon finally falling and him jumping a little, fearing hot tea was to follow and almost sloshing as a result of that twitch, Draco pursing his lips together but in a way that almost looked like he was trying to hide a smile at the expense of Connor's struggles.

“Sorry,” Connor muttered, fetching his spoon.

“By the way, did you see my head? I was fiddling with a mirror earlier, the cut looks like some kind of wonky smiley face, Michael says it looks like the Batman logo,” Draco said, inclining his head in an almost joking way but Connor really didn't want to see Draco's jolly gaping head wound and really wanted to get back to what Draco had said moments prior.

“Anyways,” he said quite poignantly, “Michael wants to get to know me?” he asked, Draco leaning back.

“He is curious about your mother and I told him you hadn't any answers for him and it wasn't really right to pound you with his questions even if you did, and he apparently agreed, or I think he agreed. I don't know, my Saturday is a little muddy come about that time. Gaping head wound and all,” Draco said, vaguely indicating his head with a wispy circular flutter of his hand before taking a sip of his tea.

“So, then, he knows about me.”

“My son is damn smart, and persistent to a fault. He was at the library with me and used his knowledge of his -your- mother's last name to look her up, discovered her past and was rather displeased with what the books had to say. Then he heard your name used and was able to piece together your rather strong physical similarity to him and correlate some kind of relation.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Um,” Draco said, clearly thinking hard and seemingly struggling. “I think he thought you were his uncle at first. I remember telling him you were his half-brother, and him being shocked and asking more about his mother, but I don't think I answered him much, I can't imagine I would at least. Again, not sure. He and I haven't said a word on the matter since, and I am kind of not looking forward to the time when his curiosity boils over and he is forced to ask me despite how I am feeling. I can see it in his eyes, his need to know. He's just trying to let me rest right now, thus why he isn't interrogating me, yet.”

“Should I…” Connor started to say but stopped and Draco looked over at him.

“I'm not sure you talking to him on the matter of your shared mother is a good idea. Despite the fact that you never met the woman you seem to really hate her and think her a bad person. I'm not saying that is without reason given that she basically abandoned you, but I really don't want my son to hate his mother.”

“Even though she abandoned him too?”

“She died.”

“So today you are sticking with the `she loved us until the end' version of events then?” Connor said, letting his bitterness show.

“Yes.” Draco said quite curtly, sipping at his tea.

“I hope your antipsychotics help you stop swaying between reality and your perceived reality.”

“Forgive me, which one is the reality? I forgot that you were there and all,” Draco snapped, glaring just a little.

“I wasn't, but look at the facts, Draco, rather than your selective and biased memories of her. She did cheat on you, and did leave you and your children right before she died, and did the same to me. The only reason you can't accept that is because of your psychosis I'm sure, hopefully your pride not making you that stupid,” Connor boldly said as Draco glared at him.

“You're right, it does seem silly to make you a part of this family,” Draco said so blandly it was cold, sipping his tea with closed eyes, Connor looking over at him in hurt, Draco obviously furious over his words.

“Draco,” Connor said but Draco said nothing more. Connor eventually sighed, placed his tea on the silver platter where the rest of the tea set sat, and left the room. He was confident that Draco was just on too many drugs at the moment to really be held accountable for everything he said, but his words still hurt.

Going down the stairs he kept his chin and eyes down, so coming upon Michelangelo surprised him. It was a near collision which Connor excused himself without looking up at first, but when Michelangelo didn't let him pass he looked to find the boy before him, looking a little battered from the accident still but otherwise collected and firm. The boy's independent and almost arrogant spirit was plainly visible.

“Hello, Michael,” Connor said, looking down at his little brother, hoping he didn't sound completely awkward.

“Hi,” he said, still blocking the way.

Connor stood there for a second, not sure what to do, or say, and Michelangelo wasn't being any help, not moving aside or volunteering any words.

“Uh, I was just seeing your father.”

“I know.”

“He seems like he is recovering nicely.”

“He springs back every time, he calls himself a weed,” he said blandly.

“Could…could I get by?” Connor then asked, looking over his shoulder and seeing the landing but knowing there was no other way downstairs but for this stairwell.

“You have tea?”

“With your father,” he said, backing up a step.

“Well, then how about just a chat then,” Michelangelo taking advantage of that ground gained by moving forward two steps, putting himself closer to Connor and forcing the man to back up. Once moving Michelangelo kept going, Connor left no choice but to reach the landing.

“Your father expressed his wishes that I not talk to you,” Connor said, looking up and knowing Draco was on the floor above them.

“What my father doesn't know won't hurt us, come on,” he said, guiding the way but not taking the lead so that Connor would follow because he wasn't confident that the man would. Michelangelo took Connor to his bedroom, almost had to resort to physically pushing the man in, and closed his door. Walking over to his desk he turned on his lamp to illuminate the room, and pulled out the chair so that Connor may sit on something that wasn't his bed if that helped him relax any. He also reached into the back of one of his desk's cubbies and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He held it out to Connor, one fag protruding in offer.

“No thanks,” Connor said, holding up his hand and Michelangelo shrugging while pulling one out with his lips and tossing the pack aside. Connor took a seat while Michelangelo walked by, lighting his cigarette, shaking out his match and flicking it across the room while leaning on the edge of his high bed.

“So,” Michelangelo said after taking a dreg from his cigarette. “You are my brother then?” he asked, just jumping right in, no pretenses, no small talk.

“Uh, half-brother, yes,” Connor said rather uncomfortably.

“I hear you are actually older than my dad.”

“By a handful on months, yes.”

“That's wicked. I don't envy the either of you for that, but you have to admit it's funny.”

“Funny -haha, or funny -interesting?” Connor asked, Michelangelo smiling.

“See, I like that,” he said, taking another breath from his cigarette and looking at the tip as he lowered his hand, mindful of the ash near his bedding. “You look really bothered, do I distress you so?” Michelangelo then observed and asked, Connor having been looking around the room from his seat and turning his head to look back at the boy on the bed.

“No, no, it's not that. I just never thought I would be sitting in here, talking to you is all.”

“You known about us for a while then, for that wonderment to set in?”

“You are observant, like your father.”

“I'm teaching myself Legilimency, like my father,” Michelangelo smiled and Connor blinked. “Like to keep that quiet though, shh,” he said, using the hand he held the cigarette in to press a finger against his lips in a “shh”ing motion before placing the cigarette in them. “So, have you?” he asked, barely moving his lips so as to not drop the cigarette.

“Have I?”

“…known about us for a while?” Michelangelo repeated, looking a little irritated that he would have to.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Um, yes, yes I have,” Connor said, nodding, realizing he should just try to make a conversation out of this, that all the discomfort was due to himself, the boy obviously cool and confident.

“How did you find out? The Ministry certainly did all in their power to keep us baby Malfoys on the DL.”

“DL?”

“Down-low,” he clarified and Connor nodded.

“I got'cha. Well, my mumbee and pop-pop told me,” he said, Michelangelo just looking at him. “Um, they are my, well, our grandparents,” he said, realizing that he needed to explain.

“And how did they know?”

“I think she owled them about it, or the Ministry did. Somehow they were told that their daughter had married a man while in Azkaban and had two children with him.”

“Actually, they married after she was out of Azkaban, my father was still in obviously. I was born outside of Azkaban, as was Clarissa, but it wasn't until after I was born but before Clarissa was, that they married.”

“I didn't know that. I thought they married while both still in Azkaban.”

“Nope. I'm a bastard through and through, but Clarissa was only conceived one, not born one.”

“Do…do you remember her?”

“Do you?” Michelangelo almost snapped back.

“I was born the same day she left. Technically I met her, but only because in the process of having me I came out of her,” he said, smiling rather sadly. Michelangelo nodded. “You didn't answer my question,” he then accused.

“Ooh, how astute of you,” Michelangelo commended while taking a breath of cigarette and looking at it in boredom as he thought through his answer. “Yes, I remember her. I was just turned three when she died.”

“Really?” Connor was suddenly very interested and leaned in some.

“It's not like she and I had any shared deep seeded moments that have stuck with me over the years, I was a toddler. I just remember her, as in, her presence, her hair, her scent. I remember one Easter. I'm not sure why.”

“Easter?”

“Yeah, a few weeks before she died.”

“Could you…I mean, could you tell me?”

Michelangelo looked over at him and saw Connor looking a little needy and a little abashed, but under all that eager. Michelangelo recognized that in himself, that desire to know his mother, and could relate and find comfort where he hadn't with Clarissa because she had no desire to know. Michelangelo felt an instant connection. He couldn't deny him. Leaning over until he tipped gently onto his stomach, able to reach his ashtray as it sat on the far-side of his mattress then, Michelangelo took a moment to think while favoring his bruised right side.

“Well, I was a toddler, toddling around. I remember the Easter-egg hunt, the eggs hardly hidden, but me wondering around looking for them with my basket, missing them and everyone telling me to go back, look higher...but that is not what I remember so clearly.”

“What is it that you do?”

“Lunch,” Michelangelo said, looking down and smiling at his fag for a moment, like the memory brought him some warmth and happiness. “I remember sitting on my mother's lap. Clarissa, in this impossibly frilly ruffle dress, was two at the time and was being passed around to everyone, as always…and I remember my mother looking down at me, and smiling. She said I was a good boy for feeding myself and not making an awful mess. I remember smiling a lot, and I remember her hugging me around the middle as I used her lap as a booster seat to reach the table. I remember her breaking off a chocolate bunny's ear and giving it to me.”

“That is a lovely memory,” Connor said, brow frowning however because he had no such thing shared with his mother. He had wonderful memories shared with his mumbee and pop-pop, but lacking a true mother hurt.

“Yeah, well, lot of good it does me,” Michelangelo scoffed, flicking his ash into the tray.

“I think it creates an irreversible bond. I'm jealous of you for that.”

“It just creates a stinging loss and abandonment issues,” Michelangelo refuted, taking a long dreg of his cigarette and then pounding it out before he could possibly be done with it. He seemed to be using the pounding as an outlet for some of his frustration.

“She didn't abandon you, Michael,” Connor said. Though not really believing that, he honored Draco's wishes that he not give Michelangelo a reason to hate his mother. “She died.”

“She abandoned you,” he argued.

“I think if it more like I was given up for adoption. She was young; a lot of single young mothers do that, in hopes of their child having a better life. The only difference was I was with my grandparents, not strangers,” he said, for the first time defending his mother, for the first time giving her that much credit and he was taken aback. It wasn't hard, was it, to defend her. He supposed, not knowing her intentions made it easy to take her actions and deduce what you like from them. He had decided years ago that she had not wanted him; could that have not been the case? He kind'a felt like he never would know, forever be unsure and a little lost.

“You don't believe that,” Michelangelo accused.

“I'm uncertain of that,” he refuted, being honest with the boy that was clearly trying to read him.

There was a knock on the door. Michelangelo didn't move and Connor looked over, but it was Clarissa who spoke as she entered.

“Hey,” she said, her voice still high but a little less chiming without her father there to appreciate it.

“Hey,” Michelangelo responded, Connor back to being a little stiff with apprehension and unease. He was looking at his little sister, and while he felt capable of making a connection with the boy, he was unsure of how to handle the young girl given how he had seen her acting with Draco. She was all bubbles and giggles…what did he know of such things?

“You remember Connor,” Michelangelo said, sitting up so he was no longer sprawled on his stomach and Clarissa joining him on the bed. He was a little stiff moving.

“How could I forget,” Clarissa said, eyeing him in a way that hinted at maturity her pink outfit seemed to deny her on principle. The large bow tied in her hair, the capri-denims, the pink top and glittery belt and white leather sandals, she looked so young, except for those eyes. “Hello Connor. Michael says you are our brother, is that true?” she asked and Connor raised his eyebrows but then nodded. “Wicked,” she then said, looking at Michelangelo and elbowing him like she had believed -until now- him to be playing a prank on her.

“You have nothing to say on it?” he asked, surprised by how well both the children were taking it, watching them punch each other in the arm.

“What would you have me do, pitch a fit? I can't see why, but I could oblige if it would give you some peace of mind.” She smiled sweetly.

“No, that's quite alright,” he laughed.

“You have a very interesting face,” she said and Michelangelo snorted a laugh, not having dared be so bold but Clarissa clearly having no problem just blurting something like that out.

“Thank you?” he said, sounding uncertain.

“What's with the…” she said, trailing off, just pointing at her own face in a circular motion in her inarticulate state.

“Claire,” Michelangelo said under his breath.

“What? Just because you don't have the balls to say it doesn't mean I don't,” she teased, Michelangelo hitting her in the arm again, her retaliating.

“Piercings,” Connor said for her, interrupting his squabbling siblings, knowing her question was something a lot of people stared at him for, and was one of the first things he was often asked about.

“Yeah, what's with them,” Michelangelo added, laughing, showing he had “the balls”.

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, there has to be a reason, you didn't just fall face-first into a jewelry bureau and leave anything that stuck there there,” Clarissa said, Connor smiling, Michelangelo chuckling.

“I like them. I started with an earring when I was twelve, and I just added more over the years,” he said with a shrug.

“How many do you have?” Clarissa asked inquisitively, tilting her head and her voice doing that thing that Draco seemed to love so much, that chiming thing as she batted her eyelashes.

It was hard to resist and Connor had to wonder if Clarissa consciously did it or not.

“I have three in my eyebrow, each side, two in each side of my nose, three in my lip and one labret, two in my tongue, two on my upper-lip called a Monroe…lets see,” he said, actually reaching up to touch the bridge of his nose. “One bridge, and fifteen in each ear,” he said, tallying them all off and thinking he got them all. Today he wasn't wearing all of them, the left eyebrow bare and only two of his bottom lip piercings in, snakebites as they were called.

“That's 51,” Michelangelo said, surprising Connor.

“You do that sum in your head?”

“Simple addition,” he shrugged. “What do Mumbee and Pop-pop have to say about your head so full of holes?”

Connor chuckled.

“They love me for exactly who I am,” he said, knowing his look was a little ostentatious, but his rather humble demeanor compensating for that, mostly.

“Who?” Clarissa asked, laughing, having missed the explanation Connor gave the first time.

“Our grandparents,” Michelangelo explained, Clarissa gasping.

“We have grandparents?”

“Yes,” Connor said, nodding.

“Oh, will we be meeting them?” she asked, Michelangelo looking over at Connor, not having asked but certainly wondered that himself.

“Well, I mean, they are quite old, don't go out much, but as their grandchildren, I'm sure they would cherish a visit from you sometime,” he said, unable to say more due to Clarissa's girly squealing of delight.

“Oh my god, that is so neat. We get a brother, and two grandparents, all in one day!” she said, practically beside herself.

“Do you not have grandparents on your father's side?” Connor asked.

“We have our Nana, but our grandfather died before we were born,” Michelangelo said, shrugging.

“We have the Weasleys as a sort of Grandparents, but it's not the same thing,” Clarissa said, Michelangelo all too ready to agree there as he nodded his head. “So, are you going to stop skulking around the shadowy edge of the family then?” she then asked and Connor felt his face fall a little, thinking about what Draco had said upstairs. He knew there was a large possibility that Draco would not even remember what was said, but it still hurt. Now with Clarissa and Michelangelo wanting to meet their grandparents, it seemed like Connor was stuck in a position between them and Draco, and feeling a bit trapped.

Both children seemed to pick up on Connor's crumble.

“Something wrong?” Michelangelo asked.

“I thought you could read me,” Connor challenged, though not in an arrogant way.

“I can read your emotions, not thoughts, and I can tell you are upset, just not why.”

“It's nothing, just something your father said,” he said, shaking his head.

“Don't take to heart anything Daddy says at the moment, he is on a lot of drugs,” Clarissa comforted. Connor nodded but still the feeling stuck with him.

“Dad has never reacted well to medications or drugs,” Michelangelo added, Clarissa nodding.

“He's been on them before?” Connor was stunned.

“Oh yeah,” Clarissa said, drawing out the phrase and widening her beautiful eyes some.

“When he got out of Azkaban he did a lot of drugs, tried to hide the fact from Nana and us, but it was obvious,” Michelangelo explained.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Clarissa nodded. “We were living with Nana, Dad just moved in after being released, and we thought it was just drinking at first, which no one liked but could understand because of all he had been through, but we realized it was more when he started losing weight rather than gaining it. He started doing drugs after he broke his hip and pelvis, because of the pain, and it just spiraled downward from there.”

“He overdosed one night, and I found him. I remember everyone saying he tried to kill himself. I know that's not true, my father is just deliriously oblivious to his own limits. Nana cracked down on him, however, threw him out, wouldn't let him see us. It is the only time I can ever recall her yelling. They were screaming at each other,” Michelangelo said, Clarissa taking over at that point.

“That was a bad time. Dad wound up on the street. The stupid Ministry wasn't paying him anything while he worked, all the money coming directly to us in child support so Nana eventually took pity on him and let him come back if he was sober and clean.”

“I'm pretty sure he has been drug free-ish since,” Michelangelo said in closing.

“ish?” Connor questioned, Michelangelo again speaking in some vernacular he didn't understand.

“Well, I would like to think he is clean, but he heads the local pack,”

“Werewolves,” Clarissa interjected.

“And they all peddle and do a lot of drugs. It's a toxic environment. Having us taken away from him by Nana was a nasty blow, but a necessary one. It scared him straight and he has sacrificed a lot for us, been the best father he could possibly be…but he can also be extremely narrow-minded and short-sighted. When the pain gets too intense and the stress too much…well, you know,” Michelangelo said with a shrug.

Connor was shocked by how seemingly desensitized the two children were to their father's bad habits, by such a world in general. They talked about drug abuse and over-dosing like it was just a fact of life. They spoke of screaming fights and their father living on the streets like it was humdrum. Then again, being werewolves, given the things they have witnessed, suffered through, endured, maybe it was just that commonplace.

“You don't think drugs are…like, okay do you?” he asked, worried.

“No,” Clarissa said, shaking her head and Michelangelo shrugging because he himself smoked. “We have seen it kill members of the pack we have known our whole lives and cared about, and we have seen what it has done to our father whom we love,” she said. “We don't like some of the things he has done, but we don't hold his past against him like the rest of the world does. He did it, learned from it, moved on, that's the best anyone could ask of him,” Clarissa said quite simply. Connor had to commend the children for being so loyal, and yet so prudent.

“And I'm surprised Dad hasn't killed you yet for smoking,” Clarissa added, looking over at her brother.

“He can't, otherwise he would be a hypocrite,” Michelangelo argued and Clarissa swatted him again.

Connor laughed, liking his new siblings, though worried that he might have to be the stern older-brother if Michelangelo was going to follow in his father's footsteps and make bad decisions. He was sure he was going to be breaking a lot of knees when it came you boys and Clarissa.

“Oh-my-god, you know what?” Clarissa said, sounding suddenly excited like a thought had just struck her. “We have home movies, Dad pulled them for Ginny to view but with everything that has been happening we all haven't had the opportunity to sit down and watch them. We should all watch them together, you should join us, Connor” she said and Michelangelo rolled his eyes, not wanting to watch the films where he was dressed like a nancy-boy. They had seen a few in the past, and they were embarrassing.

“Oh, I don't know,” Connor sighed.

“I'll fetch the movies and Ginny, Michael, you and Connor set the telly up in dad's room and we will have a viewing night. Move it,” she said, hopping off the bed and hurrying towards the stairs, already calling for Ginny.

“No arguing with a Malfoy woman,” Michelangelo said, stretching carefully given his bruised liver and over-all sore body, scratching his head and following in the direction his sister had run off, confident at that point that Connor would follow.

Connor sat there for a while, smiled at himself, and then finally stood.

---------------------

“Michael, don't hit your sister!” a woman scolded from behind the camera, a very curly haired toddler before the lens, turning to place his hands behind his back as his younger sister held the top of her head and cried. They were both so blonde they were almost white, with pale eyes and skin, dressed in pastels and sandals. Clarissa continued to stand there and cry until she fell on her bum to scream. Nymphadora seemed to step in then, scooping up the younger Clarissa and assuring her it was fine. Michelangelo looked towards the camera and grinned and Narcissa -who was filming- tisked at him and told him no. Michelangelo saw a butterfly then and toddled off, clearly not paying attention.

“My children were once so adorable,” Draco sighed as he lay in bed, Ginny under his right arm, Clarissa carefully snuggled on his left, barely touching him due to his aches and pains. Michelangelo and Connor had the end of the bed, and there they all lounged and watched the films. Michelangelo groaned every time he came on, and Clarissa giggled at her own mini-likeness. Ginny laughed and enjoyed it, and Connor appreciated the chance to see the family in such an intimate way. Draco seemed to hold no grudge from earlier.

Draco enjoyed these films, but in a sad way. He had missed all these events in their originality due to his incarceration, and had only seen these (made by his cousin for his benefit) when she would visit him. Azkaban was not like Hogwarts, Muggle technology did work, and Nymphadora had had little issue with investing in a computer laptop that could play movies on disk and ran on a battery so that she could show him these. They were painful to watch then, as they were today, but he had needed them. His brief visits with his children were hardly enough.

“We are damn adorable still,” Michelangelo scoffed and was nearly pushed off the bed by Draco's foot which was under the covers.

“Michael, Michael, look at the camera,” Nymphadora could be heard saying from the television, Michelangelo her target but him clearly too distracted to pay her much mind. Michelangelo on the bed groaned again as he flopped his face into the covers and Connor laughed. “Michael, look at your auntie, hey there,” she said, little Michelangelo finally looking up at her and grinning at the camera, toddling closer while raising an arm as though to grab at it.

“Hey there, you want to say something?” she asked, Michelangelo already turning away to be distracted by something else but Nymphadora's hand reaching into frame to grab his wrist and hold him there. “Hey Mikey, how about you say something to Daddy?” she suggested and that got Michelangelo's attention for a moment.

“Dabby,” he said, almost saying `daddy', the excitement there in his eyes at his daddy's mention.

“That's right, `Dabby'. What do you want to say to Dabby?”

“No, budder-fwy…” Michelangelo muttered, apparently wanting to find his lost butterfly friend.

“You want to tell Dabby you love him?” she coached, reaching into view again to keep Michelangelo there. Michelangelo looked up, his curling hair so tight and springy at that age, not that it had relaxed much in all these years. He used his whole hand, the whole palm, to smush his hair to the side where it did not stay, in attempts to getting it out of his eyes.

“Dabby.”

“Yes, tell Dabby you love him.”

“Luv him,” Michelangelo said in distraction, looking away.

“Say I love you Dabby.”

“Luv you Dabby,” Michelangelo said, looking right into the camera for a second before turning and trying to toddle away despite being held onto and ending up falling down as a result. The camera scene changed and gave Ginny the opportunity to look over at Draco who was very obviously trying not to tear up. He looked over at her with his bottom lip stuck out and she smiled at him, kissing his nose.

“God, these are the kinds of movies you drag out to embarrass us in front of our friends at birthday parties,” Michelangelo moped, blankets pulled up to his mouth so that his words were muffled some.

“Or your prom date,” Clarissa added.

“Oh no, that's what the naked bath photos are for,” Draco teased, both children letting out mortified moans as Draco grinned, Connor laughing.

“Clarissa baby,” Narcissa could be heard. “Remus, turn her around,” Narcissa directed, Remus Lupin being the one holding Clarissa in his arms. He was always the best at getting her to stop crying. Remus was sitting in a lawn chair, with Clarissa in his arms. He placed his hands in her armpits and turned her so that she could stand on his lap, supported under the arms, her frilly dress hiked up some so her little ruffled bloomers could be seen. Her lips were always puckered when relaxed, so she looked ready to give a kiss at a moment's notice. She stood there in her ruffled ankle socks and white little buckle shoes. Her dress was white and pale pink, bows and ruffles to excess. There was a pink elastic headband in her wild blonde hair with a bow attached, it barely enough to keep the curls from engulfing her precious features.

“Claire baby, say hello,” Narcissa encouraged the little girl who was a year younger than the toddling Michelangelo. She could stand on her own, and walk aided, and was probably about eighteen months in the footage. Ginny knew, however, that Clarissa had been late in walking because she had been premature and slow in growth and development for the first months, so tiny for so long. Everyone had been a little too willing to just carry her around; at this point she was too accustomed to their catering to even try on her own.

Clarissa squealed in a giggling delight while bending her knees and straightening them a few times to bounce in place.

“Pretty little Clarissa,” Narcissa cooed, Clarissa giggling and smiling, happy as a honey bee.

Ginny looked over at Draco who was leaning over some to whisper something into Clarissa's hair as he rubbed her arm, and she smiled, apparently responding with `I love you' so Ginny could only assume Draco was praising her in some way. Ginny looked back at the television and saw the precious little Clarissa being encouraged to walk by Remus who allowed her to hold his two fingers, one in each hand, leading her forward in eager steps. She seemed so bold while holding onto someone, but would simply sit down the second they let her go. Her arms up kept her little dress raised, her ruffled bloomers for all to see. Ginny could understand why Draco wanted a baby girl so bad after seeing just a few minutes of these movies, and now more than half an hour into it she almost wanted one too if she promised to be even a quarter as cute as Clarissa.

“Come here Claire-bear,” Nymphadora called, trying to get Clarissa to let go of her husband's hands and come to her on her own just a few steps away. “Come on pretty girl, let's show Daddy what a good walker you are, come on,” she said, squatting there in what Ginny couldn't believe, but an actual dress. Tonks was not one to wear dresses, not white sundresses for sure, but there she was, in a simple white dress with a cloth tie in the back. Her hair was a soft shade of lavender, eyes bright blue, feet bare. It was amazing how much she looked like Draco's family when she wasn't messing with the structure of her face, when she wasn't morphing her features. She had that same pointed nose, and a heart-shaped face that was not quite as long but still just as thin as the rest of her family.

Clarissa showed desire to go to her aunt but her feet seemed to be getting ahead of her seeing as she was still holding onto Remus as he remained stationary. She let go with one hand and reached out, “dah!”ing again for Nymphadora to take her hand and help her, but Nymphadora just held her hands open but close to herself, wiggling her fingers.

“Come here, come to your auntie,” she cooed, Clarissa looking to Remus, then to Nymphadora. She grew distracted for a second as Michelangelo toddled into view, holding was looked like a frog and looking delighted. Clarissa wanted it, reached for it, and Michelangelo turned away.

“No!” he shouted, holding the chubby frog tightly, hands up by his chest. Clarissa started to cry, and leaned into her uncle's knees for a second while stomping her dainty feet, but Narcissa called out from behind the camera.

“Clarissa, no crocodile tears,” she said, knowing Clarissa was not hurt, or even upset but for the fact that Michelangelo had something she clearly wanted. Clarissa stopped crying immediately and looked poutingly at her uncle, then over at her aunt. She reached out again.

“Dah!” she said, that being her word for her aunt, since Nymphadora was far too difficult a name for a baby to say, Nymphadora knowing Clarissa's call and ready for her. Clarissa looked uncertain as she pushed away from her uncle's knees, and basically only stumbled forward rather than actually walked, but she did it on her own so was praised endlessly for it once welcomed into her aunt's arms.

“Yay! Claire-bare walked all by herself,” she praised, blowing raspberries on Clarissa's pink cheeks and getting her to practically scream her giggles. Remus came over to join his wife and congratulate Clarissa some too; Clarissa eating up the praise and the camera's attention like it was nourishment, looking right into the camera lens. Nymphadora pointed at the lens and waved, Clarissa mimicking somewhat. It was obvious why Remus and Nymphadora were content with having had no children of their own, they had played a substantial role in raising Draco's two.

“Your daddy is in there, you want to give him kisses? Give him kisses,” Nymphadora encouraged, allowing Clarissa to lean forward, Clarissa kissing the camera lens, it being a blurry gesture, but her face bright and grinning once a few inches away again and back into focus.

Ginny felt Draco's hand rubbing her tummy then and she found him looking at her when she turned, the look in his eyes so loving and deep it was moving even after the displays of love and affection she had just witnessed on-screen.

“I love you,” he whispered to her, his voice always lower when he used hushed tones.

“I love you, Draco,” she said, them kissing and turning back to the television where there was an exclamation from it.

“Oh no,” Remus laughed, Michelangelo toddling into view, knees covered in muck, hands empty but dirty and fingers spread wide, a splatter of mud on his cheek as he pouted.

“What happened?” Narcissa asked, coming into view, Nymphadora the one with the camera now.

“Mikey, did you lose your hopper?” his uncle Remus asked, Michelangelo not crying just looking so sad over the fact, all mucky and his grandmother a fuss with his state, grabbing a cloth napkin from the picnic table and squatting down in a pale pink almost suit-like dress and jacket, white high-heeled sandals on her feet, her blonde but whitening hair pulled back into a serious bun. She was thinner than ever, even looking a bit older here than she did at the present. She licked the corner of the napkin and started wiping at Michelangelo who had to be held there by the wrist as he protested the cleaning process his grandmother offered.

“When was this?” Ginny asked, realizing something just now.

“August of 2001,” Draco said, kicking at Michelangelo again because he was moaning to Connor about how embarrassing this was to have to watch.

“What was the occasion?” Ginny asked, noting everyone dressed up to some extent.

“My mother's release from Azkaban. She got out in the beginning of August, after a three year sentence. Claire would be two in about four months here, Michael three in about five,” Draco said, Connor listening, the video carrying on much the way it had been so far, focusing mostly on the children, but the adults each taking turns talking to Draco through the camera, this being done for him after all.

Ginny didn't ask, she didn't want to ruin the moment, but she was confused as to why one person was conspicuously absent. Draco knew exactly what she meant to ask, however, and smiled sadly.

“My wife was not invited,” Draco said, the children both looking back towards the television as though not listening, though they clearly were, but Connor looked over. “This was a party for my mother, and my mother and Christina hated each other.”

“Are you serious?” Ginny asked, caught off guard by Draco actually using her name. That was something he never did.

“I think hate is, well, too gentle a word for their feelings towards one another really,” Draco said as an afterthought, Ginny looking over at Connor who looked surprised too. “Besides, Christina was a bit camera-shy, she didn't appear on most of the films, was more content being the one behind the lens,” he said, seeming really indifferent over the matter.

“You have films of her?” Michelangelo asked, looking right around at his father. Draco just nodded silently, Clarissa looking up at him in her own astonishment.

“Did, did your mother ever say why she hated…Christina so much?” Connor asked, trying to not let the conversation get hung up by that clear revelation, though not really ready to say “my mother” to Draco in the context that they were talking about Draco's wife. Ginny was still not filled in on the situation yet, but she wasn't stupid. She had asked Draco if Connor was a relative of his dead wife and Draco had said yes. She was not sure how they were related just yet, but she had a feeling, and she didn't want to dare make a question of it for risk of sounding stupid, or worse, being right.

“Oh-yes,” Michelangelo said, Clarissa nodding.

“My mother is far to, well, civil to ever admit to animosity towards someone while sober,” Draco explained.

“But she is drunk a good amount of the time so there has been ample opportunity for her to share her thoughts on our mother,” Michelangelo explained, Clarissa and Draco nodding.

“Well, what were her reasons?” Connor pressed, Ginny curious as well. She knew Narcissa hadn't liked her much from the start either, but she had grown to be tolerable, and now apparently likeable, but she wondered if her feelings changed when she was drunk. Ginny wasn't an insecure woman, but she was a little dubious now.

“I think larger than the fact that we were unmarried when we had Michael and such, my mother and Christina had never liked each other, and being forced to be civil by the ties of marriage did little to grow them on each other.”

“They knew each other prior?” Ginny asked a little baffled. Draco looked over at her with raised eyebrows.

“Of course. Remember, she was sixteen years older than me,” he said and Ginny just looked at him not sure what she was supposed to deduce from that.

“Nana married our grandfather at eighteen, right out of Hogwarts, and had Dad at nineteen,” Michelangelo explained, knowing the numbers, Ginny looking over at him and thinking on that.

“You mean your mother and our mother went to Hogwarts together?” Connor asked, Ginny looking at him, it not a mystery now how Connor was related to Christina, but that being why she was staring.

“There you go,” Draco said, a little unenthusiastically. He hated having to talk about his late wife, but he knew it was kind of important that he did. What his children knew was minimal. They knew more dates and drunken rants from their grandmother, than they did truths and circumstances. Draco knew he owed it to them to share things with them now, now that everyone was growing older, now that he and Ginny were a family, now that Connor was trying to make a place for himself amongst them. These videos were just the first step to a long touchy process.

“They were years apart though,” Ginny said, recovering from her shock over Connor rather well and wrapping her mind around the other revelation at hand.

“That means very little in a school with a student body as small as Hogwarts and you know it, Ginny,” Draco said, looking over at her. “They were both in Slytherin and three years apart. They saw enough of each other to establish an abhorrence.”

“Did she, your mother, ever say why they didn't get along?” Ginny asked, looking to Draco for the answer though possibly one of the children knew.

“My mother was a tart,” Connor said, taking a wild stab in the dark there as to the reason and everyone looking at him.

“Yeah, that's about it,” Draco sighed. He had hoped to be a little more delicate in delivering that fact, but he supposed he owned it to them all to take care of the hard part while Connor volunteered to take care of the easier part of the telling. “Connor is the direct result of Christina's, uh, wayward behavior…and my mother, a Prefect, Head Girl, and the type that looked down on such manners, did not associate with her or her circle,” Draco explained as gracefully as possible.

“I didn't know that,” Clarissa chimed, looking up at her father.

“Yeah, well, some people do some pretty irresponsible things when they are young,” Draco said, in her defense, sort of. Michelangelo shifted, feeling like he was being implicated by his father then, Connor feeling a bit on the spot but there because he had placed himself there by forcing Draco to have to explain.

“It's good to hear you talking of her, Draco,” Ginny praised, Clarissa looking back towards the telly, Michelangelo and Connor following suit and talking quietly amongst themselves.

“It kind'a feels good to actually talk about her,” Draco admitted, surprised by this since it had always hurt him in the past to simply mention her.

The video went fuzzy for a moment, then it picked up again, a different scene this time, indoors, much darker with yellow fire and candle-light, Christmas music playing in the background.

“Happy Christmas!” Nymphadora, Lupin, her mother Andromeda and father Ted all said at once, noses all a little red from eggnog as they stood together, arms around each other. The camera lowered some towards there knees to see Michelangelo toddling around again, a little bigger than before in the last video, but not much. He was sure of step and faster as a result, and he ran past with some shiny parcel ribbons and bows stuck to the top of his head of curls thanks to everyone sticking them there.

“I don't remember ever seeing this one either,” Clarissa said, snuggling close to Draco and trying not to hurt him with her desire to be cuddled.

“I remember this,” Michelangelo added, sounding distant as he became very engrossed in the film.

“This a special one?” Ginny asked.

Draco patted Clarissa's arm while nodding.

“These were made for me to view while in Azkaban, I didn't make a habit of showing them once out. I most certainly never showed you guys this one,” he said, a tightness in his chest and a queasiness in his stomach. He had promised Ginny some “happy memories” though, after having shared some of his most darkest secrets, so he was viewing these again, his children only having been shown a select few for laughs, him sometimes watching them privately when no one was around.

“Why?” Ginny asked.

“Because mum was there,” Michelangelo said, able to recall this experience if but vaguely. This was the only Christmas he remembered with his mother.

Clarissa looked over at Draco with a surprised face, Ginny too, Connor doing the same, Draco sighing and nodding.

“Mum is on this tape?” Clarissa asked, sounding shocked.

“Briefly, mostly behind the camera,” he said, Clarissa looking back at the screen and hearing Narcissa talking to Michelangelo who was running about, and her telling him to slowdown before he fell.

“I didn't think you had any photos, let alone footage of her,” Ginny said quietly to him, though looking at the screen herself.

“I don't leave them lying about, but I do have them,” he said, having known the moment he had selected this particular tape to view that Christina was on it. Though he was uneasy, and nervous about it, he had chosen this tape, and this occasion, to let his children finally see it, because he realized that Michelangelo had some severe issues over the absence of his mother. Draco had never meant to harm his children, but by protecting himself he had hurt them, and he hoped this would make it up to them, this treat, just a little. Connor too, he figured, would enjoy the chance to see and hear the mother he never knew, maybe hate her less if he understood that she wasn't quite as cold-hearted as he had always painted her to be.

Draco held Ginny's hand tight.

Ginny watched as the small family merrily gathered to sing, and talk, and pass the babies around. Clarissa was once again in a dress so frilly it was ridiculous, but this time the ruffles were just the underskirt. The dress itself was a red and greed plaid, in honor of her Scottish mother who was directing the camera and had likely dressed her. The bust of the little dress was a deep green sort of velvet with a red bow in the center. The sleeves were a matching plaid and exceedingly puffy. Clarissa was bigger now, walking and standing on her own now without a problem, just turned two if Ginny's understanding was correct. Clarissa had a bow in her hair, as always, and stood there in her little black buckle shoes and red tights, looking at the camera, smiling and pulling at her dress.

“Say Merry Christmas Daddy,” a woman requested from off camera, her voice different than any they had heard up until that point, her voice Scottish.

Draco's hand tightened. Connor looked over at them for a moment as though unable to believe his ears, Michelangelo and Clarissa entranced.

Little Clarissa muttered something inaudible that only barely resembled “Merry Christmas Daddy,” that clearly too difficult for her to say, but her smiling anyways, like she had done well in her own opinion. She sat down with a simple flop onto her bum and pulled at the bow in her hair and Nymphadora scooped her up.

“No, no, leave that there,” she laughed, straightening the bow and giving Clarissa raspberry cheeks again, Clarissa practically screaming in delight.

The camera's picture shook for a moment, and there seemed to be some arguing all muffled by the hands grabbing at the device, but eventually there was a triumphant “ha!” from Ted as he now had the camera, apparently stripped from Christina. She was turned away, and blindly swatting at the lens, apparently not thrilled with being on film.

“Happy Christmas, Christina,” Ted said, laughing and Christina shoved at him. “Come on,” he said.

Clarissa was sitting up now on the bed, staring at the television, Michelangelo silent, Connor just as enthralled. Draco's hand on Ginny's was very tight and unrelenting. She could tell he was nervous about this, but a part of him seemed excited too, like he wanted to know his children's reactions to seeing their mother for the first time. Well, more than a picture that is. Michelangelo had seen a few pictures of her in those books he had read, but Clarissa was without exposure to her yet as far as Draco knew.

Turning slowly, like some kind of staged reveal, Christina looked at the camera, looking right into the lens as though right at each of them as they watched.

She stood there in a red jumper and black jeans, wild hair clashing with the jumper badly, but then few colors complementing that particular shade of orange. Her hooded green eyes were narrowed with her lack of amusement, pouting full lips pursed slightly. She had a long face, long neck, long arms, long body, long legs. Even without someone else in the shot for comparison it was obvious she was tall.

Ginny saw, for the first time, the `other woman' in Draco's life, and though she could see some similarities shared between the two of them, she realized for the first time that Christina actually looked quite different than her. Ginny had a round face, brown softer eyes, relaxed more ginger hair, and a fuller body. Other than the red hair, fair skin, and freckles, really, they didn't seem all that much alike at all, which Ginny found a relief in many ways. She could tell, through the snug red jumper, however, that Christina was a well-endowed woman, as was Ginny, and Ginny got the impression that there was one physical thing that she and his wife shared that Draco had undoubtedly enjoyed equally.

“Wish Draco a Merry Christmas, come on,” Ted coached, like they did with the children when they had the camera pointed on them.

“Merry Christmas, Dre,” she said, accent thick and rolling, glare softening considerably though it obvious there was a sigh in there, like she was giving in so as to not have to spend more time in front of the lens than necessary.

“She was beautiful,” Clarissa said, sounding a little breathless as she laid eyes on her mother for the first time.

“You look just like her,” Draco said, Ginny for the first time able to understand what Draco meant by that. She had always felt the children were a spitting image of him, but having now finally seen their mother, she could appreciate Clarissa's looks in comparison. She had her mother's hooded eyes, but her father's color. Her chin was her father's, but her cheekbones were her mothers, though both were equally high. The freckles were there, as where the curls, the most obvious inherited traits, but those full lips, those long legs, Clarissa did look quite a bit like her mother. Michelangelo too had her hooded eyes and curls. He looked more like his father, the children both having his nose which certainly dominated their resemblance over-all, but their mother was there in them, in a way Ginny, and likely they themselves, had never appreciated before.

Little Michelangelo appeared onscreen then, in his mother's arms. He was in a pair of denim shorts, red knee socks and little black shoes just out of view. His jumper was green with a leaping reindeer on it, nose blinking red. He was grinning, this being not only Christmas but his third birthday as well. Christina had her cheek pressed right up against his, and was smiling, turning her upper body from side to side slightly while hugging him in an affectionate way.

“I remember that,” Michelangelo said quietly, Draco's foot nudging him slightly, but in a loving and comforting way this time, because he knew Michelangelo was crying.

Author's note:

OMG, working two jobs, 14 hour days, 7 days a week is KILLING me. Wondering why there were no updates in a while? Answer: I NEED TO SLEEP SOMETIME!

Anyways, I hope you liked that chapter. A little bit of angst near the beginning with the hospital, the medications, and the ministry showing up and blackmailing Draco, but I think I rounded it off nicely with lovely Connor coming back, Michael and Claire bonding with him and HOME MOVIES! This chapter makes me cry, I swear. I LOVE writing about babies. Draco and Ginny will have lots of babies 400 BABIES because I love babies.

Draco is crazy, BUT the car accident served a purpose, it got Draco to finally start taking care of himself. I can almost promise you with absolutely NO certainty that nothing bad will happen to Draco for a while. I think he is all funned out for a while. Some of you were confused with the last chapter and asked “whoa, what happened? He was in the library, now a car accident?” the point of that was, Draco couldn't remember what happened, so we didn't know what happened. He had a memory and was in an accident, we got to see that memory. If you wondered what happened in that memory, Draco was raped. I'm so nice.

Alright, review! I am tired, I haven't spelt in three days, I just got off of work and thought of you guys. Instead of sleeping, or eating (which I haven't done yet today) I am reading over a 28 page chapter and posting it. I NEED reviews or I will DIE!

Die? Yes, die.

I'm fragile.

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Fallen Angel

Chapter 15

What a week it had been for Draco. Nasty articles resulting in confrontations in Diagon Alley and a further dirtying of his repute, fights and reconciliations with Ginny, wands, jobs, paparazzi, stepsons, attacks, and aches, Draco was left reeling at about midweek, believing things couldn't possibly get any more weird or stressful. He had been wrong. A diagnosis of psychosis, the Ministry attempting to sterilize him -twice- before blackmailing him for an undoubtedly absurd amount of gold, the learning of Ginny's past miscarriage, and discussion of William for the first time, left Draco depressed. Michelangelo's continuous dramas were taxing, and Clarissa taking a sudden leap into womanhood certainly depleted the last of his reserves for that week. The car accident was most certainly overkill at this point if there was some kind of aim to make Draco's week the most horrendous ever, but he was certainly one to go that extra mile.

Despite the epic stress, Draco hadn't quite had a complete nervous breakdown yet. Ginny had a feeling it was due to the medications he was on, and that was certainly part of it, but Draco was putting forth a real and conscious effort to try and deal with everything -because there was just too much of it now to neglect. He was also feeling closer to Ginny than ever after all their talking, sharing, and his new openness over Christina and his past. He found unexpected comfort in her being there with him in such matters, and he knew she felt the same in regards to him, which only served to invigorate him more. Still, things were not perfect.

His boss was still fuming over Draco's missed hours, Connor only recently being revealed to the family as being his stepson -and seemingly depressed as of late after having seen home movies containing his absent mother doting upon her other children- Ginny preparing to see a new Healer for her pregnancy now that it was common knowledge, his mother seemingly vanishing for a day at a time, the home movies he had dug-up and the explanations that inevitably came with them, the continuous work on the old house…it was no wonder Draco -along with Ginny- had indigestion. They both needed a holiday.

Draco was, however, still harboring worries and feelings, things that were actually tearing him apart inside but couldn't share. He and Ginny had taken great leaps forward in establishing a more balanced and stable relationship, but Draco still withheld things, feelings, not for his sake but hers. Ginny was making herself sick with worry and stress when this was a time more than any other that she needed rest and relaxation. He knew he needed help, but he knew the only person he could turn to was the last person he would ever want to…but he was kind of out of options at this point. This was his last chance, his only option left…that was sort of why he was so frightened.

Hermione was cleaning out her desk, readying for her time off -her pregnancy leave- when there was a knock at her door. Without looking up or considering it, she granted them admittance, assuming -and with reason- that it was simply a well-wisher coworker, come to see her off. There were jokes floating around the whole hospital that things would be less “uptight” without her there, and she laughed that off, but secretly worried that people would actually slack without here there to remind them of the rules and regulations. She fretted over the mess should would come back to in a few weeks.

Not a word spoken since entering, Hermione looked up to see who it was standing before her, having expected a “good-luck, we'll miss you,” and instead getting a heavy weight of silence and dread.

She froze upon seeing Draco standing there.

“Draco,” she gasped after finding breath in her lungs, surprised it was there at all.

“Granger,” he said quite curtly.

“What, what are you doing here?” There were no pretences, she was unable to hide or excuse her initial shock and therefore didn't even try. Last she had seen and heard Draco was bedridden. It was only Wednesday, barely four days after his accident, and he was standing before her, not exactly looking peachy-keen, leaning generously on his cane, but steady on his feet -sort of.

Draco's look softened at her question, the bruises under his eyes looking more like dark circles then, and he suddenly looked almost timid, and certainly uncomfortable.

“May I close the door?” he asked, Hermione nodding and holding her hand out in a `feel free' manner. “Thank you,” he said, closing the door and stepping further into the room, the large desk between them but the silence causing more bulk in the small space than any furniture could.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, trying to be polite but not in a way that could be interpreted as sarcastic. The way Draco glared at her with the healing cut across the bridge of his nose crinkling slightly with his distain, however, gave her the impression that he was not taking it that way. “Don't sneer at me like that, Malfoy. What are you doing here?” she demanded, challenging and unrelenting. She wasn't about to get pushed around by him. That had never worked for him in Hogwarts, and it seemed like he was keeping that same old wall up, and she was not required to tolerate it, even if he was her best friend's boyfriend.

“You really still don't like me,” Draco said, not making that a question.

“It's hard to see what Ginny sees in you sometimes, when you act like you always have when around me. You still sneer and glare and get indignant. It's irritating, and you still have not answered my question. You should be in bed,” she snapped, knowing Draco was snooping and letting how much she didn't appreciate that be known. Draco pursed his lips together and finally looked away.

“I came here for help,” he admitted, voice dripping with shame, like he hated that he was here, that it was killing him to come to her, to ask her for help.

“What kind of help would you come to me for?” she asked, being just as disdainful.

“Gee, Granger, I don't know why anyone would go to a Healer…maybe for some healing -possibly,” he sneered, Hermione's hair almost puffing out more with her agitation at Draco's belittling tones.

“You came here expecting me to fix you right up?” she asked, being just as immature.

They didn't like each other -that was no secret between them or anyone.

Hermione had been forced to tolerate Draco's bad attitude for the sake of hers and Ginny's friendship for months now, and she was frankly getting sick of it.

She was nine months pregnant, she didn't need this.

If Draco wanted to be a dick, he could do that on his own time, not bring all that bad blood up between them right now, when she had been having such a good day so far…

“I'm dying,” he blurted out, interrupting Hermione's irate mental ranting, Draco well aware of all that was happening in her mind as though she had voiced said opinions out loud and to his face. It actually almost hurt more that she felt that way but didn't say it, where as if she had just blurted it out he could have come back at her with his own insults, even if they were just retaliatory. The fact that she genuinely felt such things for him made him feel less likely to be helped, and he knew he had no one to blame for that but himself.

“What?” she asked, caught off guard by what he had said.

“I'm dying, Granger,” he said, a little more irritably, but his eyes giving it all away, revealing his true feelings on the matter. His bruised eyes were scared, lost, needy. He wasn't looking for sympathy, or reassurance, he was looking for help. It startled her to see his eyes bared so raw, he never allowed anything less than an arrogant sneer or smirk cross his expression while around her, no matter what manner of wellbeing he was in.

“I, I don't understand, you are fine…”

“Am I?” he barked, holding his arms out to the side a little as though putting himself on display. “I don't know, two concussions and a gaping head wound, weight loss on top of my already emaciated appearance, insomnia, broken bones, two seizures, fainting and dizzy spells…I know that amounts to tip-top shape in most people's opinions, but I have higher standards than the common man, being a Malfoy and all.” His sarcasm was bitter.

“Draco, you have had a bad run this last week or so, starting from the moon. It will get better…”

“No, Granger, it is not getting better. Lycanthropy is deadly; you know this as well as I do.”

“But you are young still…”

“But already showing the extreme signs of just how degenerative the condition is. I can't put on weight, my bones are as brittle as kindling, I ache all the time, I have a persistent cough…I'm about to be a father, I want to have a family with Ginny, but the rate my body is crumbling, I won't be around to see my kid grow up,” he said, looking down because his face was starting to show signs of emotion other than his frustration at Hermione's lack of concern.

Hermione's tongue felt like it was swollen a little.

“You can brew potions now though, now that you have been pardoned of your crimes. You are limited in your wand usage, but you can brew a potion without a wand, you know this.”

“I cannot get my hands on the ingredients I need, not legally at least, and you damn well know that. Besides, the potions I am thinking about are highly volatile, thus why they are so closely guarded and carefully dispensed by the Ministry. I could either cure myself, or poison myself, if I tried to brew on my own without proper guidance and care.”

“Draco, I don't know what you would have me do. You have lycanthropy, there isn't anything I can do for that, but you are also not taking care of yourself, so what incentive is there for me to put my neck on the line for you? You don't eat, you never rest, you are a fall-down-drunk, you chain smoke…all these things are making your condition worse, yet you still do them, a LOT. You wouldn't be this damn sick if you kicked your bad habits on your own,” she reprimanded.

“Fine,” he said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and crushing them in his right hand before tossing them in the bin beside her desk. “I am a nonsmoker. I am trying to rest up but the nightmares…” he said, not finishing that, not wanting to talk to Hermione Granger-soon-to-be-Potter of all people about that and pressing on. “I drink because of them, and I know it isn't right, but it is all that helps.”

“Harry does the same thing with his nightmares. You have to go to therapy, you have to talk about your dreams and feelings. Drowning your sorrows in booze does nothing but kill you.”

“Fine. No drinking. Even with all that, I am still falling apart here.”

“What would you have me do? No spell of any healing quality would work, you are too resistant to them, and I can't give you potions, I would lose my license,” she argued, not sure what Draco wanted from her.

“Oh yes, Granger. I am dying, and will leave Ginny to raise our baby and my two children alone -but by all means, hold onto that precious license of yours,” he snapped bitterly, Hermione cringing slightly at Draco's harshness, and his truth.

They both looked away at that point, Hermione unsure of what to say, Draco feeling like he had said too much, too much of his insecurity thrown out there and him feeling vulnerable.

Hermione chose to look at Draco then, really look at him, as he stood there, staring down her beige carpet. He was so thin, his already petite clothing practically hanging off of him. He was so bruised and broken, it was painful to even imagine him gimping around, all the way through the hospital just to see her. Forget what a hit his pride was taking.

There was no denying that he was dying.

She didn't want to admit it, but she agreed with him -at this rate, he would be dead, possibly by the next moon, his body just too rundown to make it through the taxing transition.

She knew she was somewhat to blame for this.

She had handed him over to the Ministry that night, all those years ago.

She had attested to his guilt in his trial.

She had rejoiced in his sentencing and actually griped over the fact she felt it hadn't been harsh enough.

Learning, however, that he had been innocent, knowing he had felt betrayed, seeing how Azkaban had destroyed him not only mentally, but physically, she kind'a felt like she owed him to help, to take care of him now when she hadn't originally.

“I owe you,” she sighed, Draco following her mental struggles and arguments, feeling her sigh in defeat moments before she spoke, still refusing to look up at her. “I don't know what you need.”

“I need something that will help me heal on my own, since spells will not help me. Nothing can heal a bone but for a spell and time. There are potions, hard to come by, which speed up the natural healing process considerably. I can heal up on my own in a quarter of the time with your help, so I can be strong enough for the next moon, so I can be well enough to be there with Ginny when our baby is born,” he said, looking up at her meekly, hating he had to admit these weaknesses, but knowing it was hardly a secret either how fragile he was.

He had a mirror, he know how he looked.

“Those potions are dangerous though, they are highly addictive on top of them losing their effectiveness very quickly because a tolerance is built up,” she said, Draco just looking at her with those cold grey eyes. “But you want potions,” she said.

“No. What I want is for you to want to help me,” he said, looking at her in an accusatory way.

Hermione sighed.

“I can get you what you need, but understand that discretion is essential.”

“Oh, I don't want the supply of potions to stop, and giving up my dealer is certainly not the best way to go about that,” he said, eager to get her to say the words, to agree to help him and say as much, so he could finally breathe.

“I have a condition,” she said, Draco narrowing his eyes at her some more, feeling that if there was one person he could turn to for help who wouldn't extort him, it was Great Gryffindor Granger, but clearly he had been wrong. “Talk to Ginny about what the Ministry tried to do to you,” she said and she could almost hear the walls close up behind Draco's eyes as he glared.

“I don't know what you are talking about,” he drawled.

“Draco, they tried to sterilize you.”

“I guess Potter needs to be explained exactly what `tell nobody' means,” he grumbled, knowing Harry had already told Ron. Draco crossed his arms, his cast held against his chest by his good arm, back against the door for support while he left his cane to the side. He was too proud to use it while feeling so pitiful.

“Draco, you couldn't really expect-”

“Well, I guess that means he thinks you are a `nobody',” he jabbed, Grander glaring at him.

“I am his fiancé, you can't really expect him to not say something to me…”

“I don't blab every last thing to Ginny.”

“And that is the issue right there, Draco. You should.”

“Why?” he barked.

“Because this involves her too!”

“I didn't realize that MY reproductive system was now owned by her. I know she has laid claim to my trouser-dragon, but I think it really is my business what is going on down there.”

“Draco, what the Ministry is doing is wrong, and it affects her because they will be going after her next. They won't do anything to a pregnant woman, but you know they will try and get to the baby.”

“I know,” he nearly shouted, easing back some, physically pressing his back against the door while running his fingers through the left side of his hair -the right side still full of staples and wounds- pushing it back out of his face while letting a slow breathe out. “I know they are going to try and take my baby away, I am dealing with that now.”

“Alone. You are not working with Ginny.”

“Have you seen her lately? Have you seen the stress she is under? Would you really like it if I doubled that at this point?”

“Draco, the stress isn't good for you either, look! It's killing you.”

“Better me than Ginny, or the baby,” he said, a queasiness taking hold of him at that point at even mildly touching on the idea of losing the baby when he and Ginny had each respectively gone through that once already.

“Draco, I will help you. I will see to it that you get better, but only if you promise me that you will stop excluding Ginny from aspects of your life. She is either a part of it, or she isn't. You need to decide which it is and go with it.”

Draco looked down.

“I'm scared that the added stress will cause us to lose the baby, and with the Ministry trying to take my ability away, and with me dying, I fear this is my only chance, my last chance,” he said, pulling his lips in to press them together, brow frowning, hair hiding his eyes from Hermione.

“I will make it so you get better, Harry will see to it that the Ministry doesn't touch you -or any werewolf- again, and you need to let Ginny in so that your spirit may heal. She will grow stronger with you there with her, supporting her as she supports you. She can take your pain, and you can take hers. Pain shared is-”

“Pain halved, I know,” he sighed, hunching his shoulders because he knew Hermione was right and it killed him to have to admit it, while on top of asking for her help.

Asking a Mudblood for help, his Malfoy ancestors were spinning in their graves, if now crawling out to kill him themselves.

“Draco, don't be like this. You claim to love Ginny, so no matter what your feelings for me, do what I ask for her sake, don't do the opposite to spite me. You will only cause yourself more grief.”

“You almost sound like you care.”

“I care about Ginny,” she said, Draco nodding slowly and turning his head away slightly, Hermione able to see the terrible wound deep in his hair where it had been chopped away some, leaving an almost bald spot in his already shortened hair, so raw and violent looking.

She knew he wasn't going to talk to Ginny, but she also knew he needed her help.

She was going to help him regardless, she could only hope she got him to think about talking to Ginny, that he might eventually -on his own- decide it really is what is best and do it.

Draco wasn't one who took orders and direction well, seemed like he resented it now.

---------------------------

Réamann looked up from his desk upon hearing the knock and his door opening, wondering who would be in such haste that they wouldn't wait for admittance. The answer to that left his stunned.

“Draco,” he said, standing a little but Draco holding up his hand to gesture that it was unnecessary.

“Hello, Réamann,” he said, taking those few steps towards Réamann's desk and sitting in the chair before it. He had let himself in because standing out in the hall where everyone was stopping to stare at him was not all that pleasant and he didn't need to be in an even worse mood.

He liked to think the stares were because he was just that strikingly handsome, but really, it was more like he was a carnival attraction, a sideshow freak, and it made him uncomfortable.

He hated when people stared.

“You were right, this is a posh office,” he said rather conversationally, as though continuing the conversation they had almost had months ago. Réamann had officially moved up from being a simple communicator between the Muggle and magical Ministries, to being part of those who head it, Draco's work that past January really paying off nicely -for Réamann at least.

“What…what are you doing here?” he asked, his familiar stammer surfacing despite his best efforts to hide it most of the time. Draco seemed to have that affect on him. He wasn't sure what it was.

“It's nice to see you too,” Draco drawled in his usual manner, though he seemed considerably more placid than was typical. Her almost seemed drowsy.

“Well, no, I didn't mean…um, hi…it is nice to see you,” he said, looking at Draco from across the desk and carefully shuffling papers around as though to tidy up but really to cover the magazines that were open. He doubted Draco would be glad of the sight, Réamann reading the gossip pages that wrote such terrible things about him all the time. He was sure, however, if Draco was reading his thoughts, he was already aware.

Was it wrong to hope that Draco's head was hurt bad enough that he wouldn't be able to?

It had been months since the two of them had been face to face, and it had been as awkward then as it was now.

“Draco, it's good to see you,” Réamann greeted, holding out his hand for Draco to shake but Draco not taking it. He never did. Réamann, not discouraged by Draco's coldness, went back to packing. He was moving the last of his belongings into his new office, the former so small and sad and empty but for the desk and shelves which would be staying.

Draco stood there, left arm in a sling, long hair looking a little tangled around the ends, clothing crisp and new but hardly hiding Draco's unease. It was February, and Draco was recovering nicely from being shot, and he seemed to be making some headway into that pile of Goblin Gold he had unearthed given the snappy threads and even snazzier car, but he didn't look all that happy. In fact, Réamann had to stop in his sorting to look back at Draco, the weight Draco had brought with him so distracting he couldn't ignore it.

“I take it you are not here to help, nor are you elated over my new position. If it is not to be a bother, or a help, why are you here?” Réamann asked, Draco now not even looking at him, the door slowly creaking closed behind him like he had nudged it backwards with his foot. After it latched and that singular noise was gone from the air, Draco finally took a breath.

“Ginny is pregnant,” he said, no pretenses, no foreplay, no “hello” even. Réamann was left to stand there and stare, Draco's eyes very intently on the carpet.

“What?” Réamann asked, dropping his papers into the box before him haphazardly as he rounded the desk slowly, Draco's shoulders hunching more and more the closer Réamann drew.

“Pregnant, as in going to have a baby,” Draco explained, preparing to be hit even though he could read Réamann's feelings and knew the shock far outweighed his desire to clobber him.

“Are…are you serious?”

“Would I joke about something like this?”

“Oh Jesus,” Réamann groaned, leaning back to place his hands over his face while looking up at the ceiling, Draco rather unmoving still while Réamann fretted.

“There is an issue,” he said as Réamann paced around the small room.

“Just one?”

“We don't know who the father is,” he said, Réamann's mind having already gone there and thus his distress.

“You…You don't think that I…I am the father, do you?”

“Are you saying it is not possible?” Draco asked, sounding neither hopeful nor pleased.

“Possible? Well, possibly?” he said, Draco just tilting his head at that a little. “I…I don't know…You were sleeping with her too…”

“Thus the problem at hand,” Draco snapped, not feeling up to having to hold Réamann's hand through this.

“This isn't happening…this isn't, isn't happening,” he said, stammering on, Draco allowing him that much since he himself had gone through much the same dance already, once out of Ginny's company that is. It was easy to put a smile on his face and hold her still flat tummy and say he was excited over this, lying was something he was quite practiced at - a natural- but in all honesty he was scared shitless. Not only would the Ministry be after his balls -literally- there were so many complications to having a werewolf pup…Draco couldn't deny a large part of him wanted this baby to be Réamann's.

“It is happening, and I need your help…she needs your help,” Draco said, looking away then, it never easy for him to ask for help.

“Me?”

“I need to know when you slept with her. Ginny wont do a paternity test, she is insulted by the very idea of it -she isn't even talking to me at the present because of my…skepticism. I do not mean to make her feel like a whore -as she claims- but this is a real issue. I need to know when exactly it was you slept with her last, so that I can figure out which of us could possibly be the father.”

“I'm not ready to be a father…” Réamann said, voice so small due to his lack of breath.

“I wasn't either when I found out I was to be, but that doesn't mean you wont be a good one.”

“But, you…you are with Ginny now. What will you two do if the-”

“Baby is yours?” Draco finished for him, Réamann swallowing hard at that. “Ginny and I want to be together, lord knows we have suffered through enough these last two months to have earned it…but a baby…so soon…it is a lot, a HUGE step. It will change our relationship no matter what, but if the baby is not even mine, well, it would just mean our relationship will just be that much easier…and that much harder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, harder that you would have to be around, tossing a child back and forth between weekends, between parents, its not easy while maintaining an amicable relationship while dating other people, step-parents, half-siblings…” he said, trailing off while rolling his good hand at the wrist before getting back to point. “But it would be so much easier if you were the father because, well, besides saving me from being killed eight times over by the Weasley blokes…” he said and Réamann paled, “relax, they like YOU,” he grumbled, noting Réamann's horror, “Ginny having a human man's child would make her life so much easier.”

“Well…well…” Réamann stuttered, thinking to himself. “I haven't slept with Ginny since the start of November. It was our anniversary, but I hadn't been with her for weeks prior to you coming into the…picture,” he said, Draco looking at him and daring to be hopeful, that only leaving him open to that all too familiar sinking feeling that urged him to sit down.

“Shit,” he sighed, leaning his back now against the closed door.

“What?”

“You couldn't be the father then.”

“Really?” Réamann exclaimed, his look of relief matching his tone, both being over the top. Draco just slumped and let himself slide to the floor. “Oh, oh Draco, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…” he said but Draco just shook his head.

“No, no,” he said, Réamann not really having anything to apologize for, unless it was a crime now NOT to get your girlfriend pregnant. Draco doubted that, if only he should be so lucky. “Ginny is only about two months along, meaning the conception couldn't have happened any earlier than mid-December,” he sighed, hurt arm curled up against him, knees pulled up as he sat there.

“Does her family know yet?” he asked, Draco shaking his head. “Silly question, you're still walking,” he said, meant to be teasing but Draco not laughing, fearing much a result as that.

Draco, mind back in the current, in Réamann's new office, sat very quietly. The man himself before him patiently waited for Draco to drift back to reality cleared his throat. Draco remembered that day he had discovered, beyond a doubt, that he was going to be a father with Ginny, and it was a memory that overpowered him whenever he was near Réamann, thus why he had avoided the man like the plague up until now.

Réamann recognized one of Draco's frequent drifts into his own mind and tried to act as though he hadn't noticed, that being what made Draco happiest.

“I was in the Ministry today and it occurred to me this question: how is Réamann Rossiter doing? Since I haven't seen you in a while, I thought I would stop by, see this nice office I have been hearing about.” Draco's tone was so casual; it was obvious he was trying to compensate for his little mental stumble.

“You just thought of me and came by?” Réamann questioned, understandably doubtful.

“Well, awright, I wanted a serious chat,” Draco admitted, his drawling more heavyset then ever before, eyes a little heavy looking.

“About?”

“What the Ministry is doing about that little incident involving me and a certain hooded attacker. I asked Ron what the Auror Department is doing about it, but he says it is being handled by the Beast Department because I'm a werewolf, but it has come to my understanding having just come from there that they passed it off to your department because it took place in Muggle London and there was a Muggle hospital involved,” he said quite blandly, Réamann sighing.

“Nothing,” he said, Draco looking at him. “My department is doing nothing about it.”

“Nothing.” He repeated the word with such a lack of enthusiasm; Réamann didn't have to even guess that Draco was angry.

“They made an official report on it and the case is considered closed.” Réamann explained.

“I would like to see that report.”

“Draco, I can't show you that, if anyone found out I could lose my job.”

“Réamann, you remember that time I risked not only my job, but my livelihood to help you out on a little confidential case?” Draco drawled and Réamann groaned and caved. He stood with a bit of a furry and walked over to his failing cabinet, opening a locked drawer and filing through the papers there with his fingertips.

“They took your statement, the statement your doctor gave, looked at the scene, took into consideration your past and then your most recent accident, and basically dismissed the whole thing as you being psychotic and looking for attention, willing to nearly kill yourself to get it,” he said, pulling the report and closing the drawer. He handed it to Draco, who took it, but it already basically explained.

“So that's it?”

“Afraid so,” Réamann sighed.

“Can't it be reopened?”

“Sure, if there were any kind of evidence of foul play by a second party, but they looked over the scene of your attack, Draco, and found nothing to sway them into believing that there was anyone involved but yourself.”

“What about all the attacks that have been going on across London, and the disappearances. Sure I may be barmy, but doesn't the fact that I am one of many werewolves harmed enough to establish reasonable doubt, a distinct pattern?”

“I don't know much about any of that, Draco, it's not my department, but from what I understand, no one is taking too great of a concern over it.”

“I have noticed.”

“I'm sorry I can't help you more, Draco,” he said, truly meaning that.

“I think you can help me though.”

“What?”

“I need you to reopen my case,” Draco said, Réamann's eyes widening.

“Draco, are you cra…er..” he said, Draco's glare instantaneous and fierce. “Draco, you can't be serious.”

“Quite.”

“I can't reopen your case, you and I are connected, if but distantly, and no one would let me. More over I could lose my job if I start poking around where no one wants me. You are aware of the animosity in which the Ministry deals with you, right?”

“You owe me.”

“I thought you said we were even? I wronged you, you took Ginny, we decided we had both done a lot and had broken even. You can't say things are square between us and then renege!”

“I'm only human,” Draco said, just looking at him, those eyes so dull. He was either bored, indifferent, or not entirely there. Réamann had a feeling it was a combination of all of the above.

“Draco,” Réamann sighed.

“Remember that time I took a bullet for you, effectively crippling my precious left arm so that you could, you know, live?” Draco drawled.

Réamann let his head fall and forehead thump against the paperwork and the firm wood below.

“Good boy,” Draco praised dully, knowing Réamann was caving.

“You are quite the extortionist, aren't you,” he mumbled.

“The Ministry has taught me well.”

“Can't you have Ron do this?”

“No, it is obvious Ron Weasley and I are getting too chummy. I have no reason to like you, you certainly have no reason to like me given that I `stole' your bint and have caused you a lot of grief I the media…people won't think you are doing this for me.”

“What about Harry?”

“What about him?”

“Couldn't he-”

“No.”

“Draco…”

“He is doing his part.”

“You know I want to help you, but, Draco, what you are asking for is…is just not possible.”

“Someone is murdering my friends, Réamann, and I want to know who.” Draco, for the first time during their visit, sounded heated.

“Draco, I feel terrible…I mean, it is not fair…it is wrong…but…”

“Réamann, they are going to take my baby away from me,” Draco said, Réamann looking up from his desk to dare a glance at Draco. “I am not allowed to breed, and having clearly done so has the Ministry is a bit of a tizzy. They are doing anything and everything in their power to take my child and lock me up, criminally or mentally. I need to prove that I'm not just barmy, and that there really is someone out there with a vendetta against werewolves, and that I am just one of many targets, otherwise I could be looking at fines that will destroy my family, and time in Azkaban, which will destroy me,” he said, Réamann closing his eyes, the weight of this hitting him all at once and almost making his dizzy. Draco was desperate, and Réamann could see why. “I just can't do it without help, I can't do it without you,” he said, Réamann able to feel Draco's sincerity. He knew Draco wouldn't make something like this up, not when it came to his children.

“I don't know what you would have me do.”

“I can give you all the names of those I know who have been attacked, or gone missing in the last eight months. I can give you statements and guarantee you the corporation of my pack if not the entirety of the werewolf community. If you submitted a report of these attacks, showing the clearly defined but obviously ignored pattern, the Ministry would have no choice but to look into it.”

“You are being uncharacteristically optimistic, don't you think? If they are obviously ignoring it now, why would they look into it even if I do write up a report?”

“Because one: it will be on record and therefore harder to cover up rather than simply ignore, and two: I will be sure that Harry notices and uses his influence.”

“You are that confident that you can manipulate him like that? You might not think so, but Harry is really smart.”

“Harry's greatest shortcoming might just be his desire to help,” Draco said, eyes dark.

“If they do take interest in this, I'm sure it would be taken over by the Beast Department at that point, and I won't be of any more help,” Réamann argued.

“No, see, all the attacks have taken place in Muggle London, so your little department would be involved no matter how minimally, and I can use you as my eyes and ears into the investigation.”

“Are you serious? All in Muggle London? How is it that this is the first time I'm hearing of this?”

“The Ministry is quite good at keeping quiet the things they don't want spread about,” Draco said, his heavy bitterness there despite his indifferent delivery.

“Well…well…if I were to use the information you give me, and…and submit a report…I think they would be suspicious. My reports in the past have been written by you, and this case revolving around you in some aspect or…or another, they will be wary.”

“They do not know about me writing those reports, unless you told them,” Draco said, eyeing Réamann and him dipping his head. “I thought not. You have grown far too attached to your position and awards to forfeit them on the principle of truth.”

“I offered to credit you, you declined.”

“Neither here-nor there, they wont think to connect me to this, they don't know we are on speaking terms-”

“I didn't either…”

“And your interest in the matter will be just as abrupt as Potter's, and no one is claiming his attention has anything to do with me. He will undoubtedly jump on this, and he will have his work cut out for him. Though it pains me to say this, I am confident in his ability to see this to the end while doing all in his power to make things right.”

“Why have such faith in a man who screwed you over in the past?” Réamann asked, wishing he could be more delicate with such a question but that being something he had never excelled at.

“Simple. He owes me,” Draco said, looking confident and hooded eyed.

“And you are content in letting him handle this?”

“Oh, no. I will use him as a means of blow this wide open, but I will have my own sweet revenge on those who are trying to hurt me and those I care about, my pack,” he said, Réamann swallowing involuntarily because the idea of Draco being a part of a pack, a pack of werewolves, was just so new, and unsettling.

“Revenge?”

“I have had a really bad month, and you know, sometimes you just have to kill a lot of people…” Draco said, his tone so bland yet hinting at so much enthusiasm, causing Réamann to swallow again, practically gulping air and coughing as a result.

“Draco, aren't you on anti-psychotics? Should you be having these sorts of homicidal aspirations?”

“Read about that did you?” Draco said, sounding bitter again, eyes flicking down towards Réamann's covered desktop where the gossip columns were hidden beneath. “I am, but understand that rational thought is relative. As a werewolf, I know how to deal with this, this being something you could never understand.”

“I can't help you if you actually intend on killing someone.”

“Fine, I won't kill anyone,” Draco said quite agreeably.

“You're lying.”

“Sure am, but you still owe me,” he said, almost threateningly, looking Réamann dead in the eyes and staring him down.

Réamann had no choice, he owed it to Draco to help him…

-------------------------

“No sex.”

“Hermione,” Ginny complained.

“Are you trying to create complications where you are fortunate enough to not already have them?”

“It's just a little fun between the sheets, it's good for stress, it's nothing to…”

“Ginny, you are at high risk, you are advised and encouraged to abstain, I would flat out tell you you're not allowed if I had such authority, but it is your personal life…but as your care-giver as well as your child's, I have to stress how serious this is. Some would say you should be on strict bed rest…”

Ginny sighed as she sat down, in Hermione's office in St. Mungo's hospital, this being the first prenatal visit since the story broke about her pregnancy. Ginny knew she needed to go to specialists now, but Hermione was not only her best friend, but her primary caregiver so far in this ordeal, and she felt bad about having to leave her…but it was what was best for the baby. Ginny was in for her last check up seeing as how Hermione was about to go on maternity leave anyways, her due date a little over a week away and it obvious by how strained she looked. Ginny looked just as large while still a month behind, only causing more concern for Hermione to fuss over.

“Bed rest…I can't…”

“You will be seeing specialists, and they will tell you what is best, AND you will do it, I'm only warning you as to what they will most likely say. Spending your final month on bed rest wouldn't hurt one way or another,” she said and Ginny glared at the floor for a moment.

“Fine, I'll try to put my libido to rest,” she said, holding her stomach as Hermione gave her a look of total disbelief and even scoffing. “Hey, just because you are a woman who has NO sexual drive while pregnant doesn't mean I am a freak because I do,” Ginny said, rather defensively, the two of them already having had this conversation more than once in the past. Hermione felt bloated, sore, and fat. She had no desire to be intimate with Harry. Ginny, on the other hand, felt rather fabulous. Yes she was stressed, tired, and her boyfriend was chronically ill while her personal, professional, and social life fell apart around her, but she still enjoyed sex, it was her one escape. Yes she had overly massive breasts and tummy which caused backaches, and swollen ankles, the usual pregnancy complaints plus morning sickness that had never left her, but she did feel otherwise fit, if not tired all the time. She blamed that on the stress. Some women enjoyed pregnancy more than others. Hermione had been miserable; Ginny was quite content, though not exceedingly jolly. She had a feeling she got that from her mother.

Hermione shook her head and grabbed a folder to read from.

“I have here a list of healers who I would recommend. Werewolf births are rare, the Ministry is typically on the ball with such things when it comes to discouraging such and event, so I'm not sure how this is usually handled, but Dr. Grieves is probably the best you will find. He doesn't have any sort of discernable bedside manner, so a lot of people who go to him hate him, but still go to him because he apparently knows his stuff, so that says something. If anyone can help you successfully induce labor and deliver a healthy baby within your most promising timeframe, it's him,” she said quite confidently while closing her folder and handing it over to Ginny.

“Thank you for all you have done for me, `Mione. It means so much to me. Draco would never say or admit it, but he is grateful too. He wants this baby so bad,” Ginny said, feeling almost sad at that point, thinking about Draco and his family situation, and how he had longed to be a father to a baby, to care for a baby, to hold his baby.

Hermione looked away at that point, already having had a visit from Draco earlier that morning. Apparently Ginny didn't know about that, as she had already assumed at this point.

“Have you talked to him on it?” she asked, delicately.

“Touched on it is more like it. It is hard to toe the topic, we are both too sensitive to the idea of losing the baby, and he doesn't like talking about his worries, he has a hard enough time talking about his past and such,” Ginny sighed.

“You can't be so accommodating forever, Ginny, not with a baby on the way. It's not like if this doesn't work out between the two of you that you can just break up and part ways and be done with it like a normal breakup. You two are stuck, and that means you can't let him manipulate you like this.”

“He is not manipulating me,” Ginny fumed.

“Ginny, when have you ever allowed Harry to not give you a straight answer? Draco dances circles around an issue and you seem more ready to praise him for his form and vigor rather than get angry! You can't `toe' at issues with him because he always backs away from the line, Ginny, always, and that will not change, not once the baby is here, not when the kid is off to Hogwarts, so on. You need to get him to understand that you demand -that you deserve- the truth, no matter what it is, otherwise you set yourself up to be walked on. We both know that doesn't bode well for a strong relationship, and certainly not one that contains you given what a little firecracker you can be.”

“You have been talking to Harry,” Ginny weakly accused.

“I have known you since you were eleven,” Hermione retorted, though them both attempting to be light given the seriousness of the matter.

“I can try talking to him about it, but every time I build up the nerve something else, new, terrible happens.”

“He is already out of bed,” Hermione argued.

“I know, and he shouldn't be! Yesterday he was in bed only humoring the idea of fetching his cane and attempting a stroll through the back garden. Today he says he is going to work! He is going to…” Ginny gurgled a little. She almost said “kill himself” but the words made her want to vomit. She couldn't even say them because the thought was too terrible.

“Draco is very good at taking care of himself, Ginny. In fact, I would have all the confidence in the world in your relationship with him if I had some kind of indication that he had half as much drive when it came to his care for you.”

“Don't start this again. You do not know him, how dare you judge him,” Ginny barked.

“Ginny, I am not getting in another fight over this with you. I am only saying, a man who can't trust his girl with the truth can't be trusted.”

“You don't know him like I do…”

“No, I don't, but I do know that despite everything he is still willing to manipulate others and break rules if not laws to get his way. No matter what the reason or excuse, anyone who can do that so comfortably is not someone I can fully trust. He is an accomplished liar, and a damn good actor.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because it's true.”

Hermione then sighed, seeing Ginny sob there, holding her tummy. She knew she didn't see whatever it was Ginny saw, and accusing Draco of acting for Ginny wasn't fair because she didn't know him, but she could see that Ginny was stuck one way or another. In her was his child, she would never be free of him, for better or worse, and Hermione really needed to learn to accept that much.

“Ginny, you are my best friend, and I love you. I'm sorry.”

“You are so unfair sometimes. You and Harry must have epic fights, you act just like him, always thinking you're right, always acting like you're so informed, always so sure of your knowledge in the matter that you don't take anyone else's perspective, opinions, or feelings into account…” she accused, though sobbing.

“Our fights have been known to jar the earth off its axis now and then,” she said with a sad smile, holding her tummy and coming up alongside Ginny who sat on the examining table, face a little soppy.

Hermione leaned into her for a hug and Ginny refused her at first, just sitting there and Hermione put her arms around her, but eventually succumbed to the pressures of friendship and wrapped her arms around her friend, their big pregnant bellies between them, chins over each other's shoulders, hands rubbing their backs.

“Have you two decided on any names yet?” Hermione asked as she pulled away, Ginny blotting under her eyes.

“Have you?” Ginny quipped, still showing some signs of annoyance with her friend but her tone far from harsh.

“Harry wants a little James or Lilly, and though I think that is sweet, I don't want to name my child after his dead parents. It just creeps me out, you know? And why should he have full say? Why his parents and not mine? I was thinking of Casey but Harry is kind'a one minded…”

“Oh, I know,” Ginny said, Hermione not needing to explain to her how impossible her once husband was. Ginny was already well aware.

“How about you and Draco?”

“We are down to about six names,” she said and Hermione looked at her. “Three for a boy and three for a girl. It is a big decision and Draco is unrelenting in his hopefulness that we are having a girl, and though no one really knows, I just have this feeling deep in my core that we are having a boy, so I have been focusing on boy names, and I think that is irritating him into not reaching a compromise with me,” she said, sighing at Draco's stubbornness.

“Well, what are the names?”

“He likes Edward, I like Kingston, and Lucas was thrown in but he felt it was too much like his father's name, which I tried to explain was kind'a the point, but he didn't seem sold of the idea, Michael already having his father's name as his middle. If he doesn't make a decision soon I'm going to name the baby after him and teach him a lesson,” Ginny laughed, Hermione joining in.

“Oh dear,” she laughed. “What of a girl?”

“I like so many names, but Draco has this thing for C names. Caroline, Crystal, Celsey, Cordelia, Cadence…”

“He wants a little princess, it's kind of cute.”

“We have time to make a princess,” Ginny said, holding her tummy as she leaned back, Hermione staring over at her in shock.

“You don't mean to say you intend on having more children with him, do you?” she asked, her dumbfounded astonishment manifest in her tone.

“Well, I'm not saying he and I are planning it, no…but I can't imagine it not happening again at some point, I mean, he seems to be unusually fertile,” she said with a shrug.

“Ginny, I'm not joking here, and I'm not saying this to be mean…but you CAN'T go having children with Draco.”

“Too late,” Ginny drawled in a manner Draco had taught her.

“No, I mean,” Hermione said, ruffling her bushy hair. “I know he hasn't said anything to you about this, and I just urged him to but I know he wont…”

“When?” Ginny asked, wondering when Hermione and Draco ever got together for a chat, regardless of topic.

“But it is expressly forbidden for werewolves to breed,” Hermione continued, not acknowledging Ginny's question to press on with the issue at hand. “Draco keeping your pregnancy quite wasn't all to do with his love for privacy, but because he feared the Ministry. They are not happy about this, and surely they will be taking steps to see to it that you and he don't get in this situation again,” she said, looking at Ginny and knowing this was all news to her and Hermione's anger with Draco coming right back.

“I…I know the Ministry is not thrilled, but honestly, it is a baby. Worse things have happened…”

“No, Ginny, understand this…Draco carries lycanthropy on a chromosomal level, it is what makes him a Greater Wolf, it is deeply engrained in his genetics. It affects every aspect of him, everything from habits and desires, to his looks if he didn't put forth such an effort to conceal such abnormalities. It also means that any child he has, who bares a portion of his genetics, will have lycanthropy as well.”

“I now…I know my baby is a werewolf, Hermione…I'm reminded of it every day,” Ginny snapped.

“Ginny, that is not what I mean to point out. It is that, Draco knew this, and so he making a child, by purpose or accident, is considered no different than if he went out and infected an adult with the disease. He is passing his condition on to another, and that is what the Ministry has their knickers in a bunch over.”

“Are you saying Draco is in, like, serious trouble over this?” Ginny asked, heart beating a little harder then.

“I only know the skeleton of procedure due to working here in the hospital, and I have only learned a little more through Harry due to his sudden interest in the Beast Department…but I can tell you, I know enough to say that…” she stopped to consider her words. “The Ministry will be sure Draco doesn't have the option of having any more children after this. He probably wants a little girl so bad because he knows this is his last chance to have one,” she said, delicately as possible but it still smacking Ginny across the face and leaving her stunned silent. Ginny looked that mortified even without her saying anything about Draco's fear of his own mortality. She kind'a understood then why Draco didn't say these things to Ginny. It didn't look like she would handle them well, but she needed to know.

“What…what do you mean make it so he `doesn't have the option'?” she asked, looking at Hermione whole holding her tummy protectively.

“Sterilization,” Hermione just flat out said, Ginny's eyes widening.

“You can't be serious, the Ministry would never…”

“They have tried twice already, and Draco is fighting it, Harry is trying to stop it.”

“Harry is trying to help Draco?” Ginny couldn't sound more shocked at this point if Hermione told her she was having octuplets.

“Draco hasn't said anything to you -obviously- and I know it's because he doesn't want to worry you, and I have encouraged him to go to you on the matter, but I don't think he will.”

“I can't believe this,” Ginny said, caught between outrage and fear, guilt and sadness. She was angry at Draco for not telling her, but her furry towards the Ministry far outweighed that. She felt sadness for Draco, but her guilt for having created this situation overshadowing that.

“Ginny, he needs someone to lean on, he is scared,” Hermione said. She was not able to believe this but she was actually almost defending Draco at this point as to why he had said nothing to Ginny yet on the matter.

“How do you know?”

“He came to me, this morning. He was looking for some potions, because he is afraid, really afraid, that he is going to die, and I couldn't argue with him on that given how terrible he looks. I agreed to help him, if he agreed to talk to you on this matter.”

“And you didn't even give him the chance?” Ginny then snapped, standing from the table, sliding to the floor to suddenly be up in Hermione's face. “You say he needs to talk to me but then tell me all he would have to say before I have the opportunity to see him? Before he gets the chance to do it himself?”

“Ginny,”

“You really think THAT low of him?”

“My opinion isn't what matters here,” she tried to deflect.

“You are my best friend, and even though you screwed Draco over in the past, you can't see past your own opinions of him to see that he isn't who he once was, who he once tried to be. And you think HE is judgmental? At least he put his pride aside to ask for help when he knew he needed it. Seems like you can't put your pride aside to help even your best friend! Thanks, Hermione,” Ginny snapped, turning to leave the room.

“Ginny, I told you because I WANT to help!” she called after her.

“You told me because it is just one more thing you do to try and convince me that Draco is a terrible person,” Ginny spat back at her upon spinning at the door. “I have enough tabloids doing that for me already, I expected a LITTLE more support and understanding even, from my best friend!” she screamed at her before slamming the door shut, Hermione left to stand there, not sure at what point everything had gone so wrong. What had started off as her telling Ginny something because she cared, became her telling her because she didn't?

Hermione sniffed back her tears, rubbing the back of her hand under her nose.

She had packing to finish.

--------------------------

“And where have you been?”

Ginny turned around in startled surprise when realizing she was not alone in her office like she had assumed.

Sitting in the chair against the wall, and overlooked by the open door blocking him from view at first, was Draco. He looked quite comfortable sitting there, cane leaning against the arm of the chair, left leg crossed to let his ankle rest on his knee, eyes heavy as they had grown to become with each day of medication, more now than ever and her believing this might have to do with the potions he was apparently now being secretly supplied.

“Oh, Draco, you startled me,” she said as though it was not obvious, placing her hand on her heart.

“I show up, endeavoring to be spontaneously romantic and take you out to lunch, and you are not even here, effectively ruining my whole attempt.”

“Were you waiting long?” she asked, taking off her brimmed pointed hat and tossing it onto her desk, her traveling robe lightweight but still a pleasure to take off in the summer heat, her office stuffy.

“About fifteen minutes. Where were you?” he asked, standing with an obvious ache. Ginny hated that he wasn't in bed at the moment, but knowing he had potions now to speed up his healing, she had a hope that he wasn't actually harming himself by being out like she had first feared.

“I was at a check-up, you know, making sure everything is going good…I told you about it this morning, remember?” she said, knowing Draco was a bit more of a flake than ever before and feeling that had something to do with the medication, or at least hoping as much, rather than it being a result of the head trauma.

“Oh, right,” he said, making an airily circular motion near the side of his head, showing his acknowledgment that he had had a lapsing moment and tried to brush it off, though Ginny knew it bothered him. “You are upset, what's wrong?” he asked.

“Don't read me,” she snapped.

“I couldn't even if I wanted to, darling, my brain is oatmeal today. I can tell you are mad by your face. What's wrong?”

“Just Hermione and I fighting over the same old things.”

“Me,” he sighed, Ginny wanting to shake her head but knowing Draco could still tell if he was being lied to. “I'm sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Draco, SHE is the one who is being insufferable.”

“I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better,” he sighed, inserting his arms under Ginny's to hug her from the front and gently rock her side to side.

“You came by to have lunch, that is awfully sweet,” she said, smiling warmly at him then, praising him for his thoughtfulness.

Draco embraced Ginny firmly, tucking his nose behind her ear and lingering there for a while, eyes closed, smelling her. He was by far the best hugger she had ever dated.

“I went to see Marcus so I was already here at the Ministry. I figured, having the day off warranted me pissing away my time, and who better to do that with but my lover?” he asked, lips brushing her ear.

“I thought you had to work,” she said.

“Connor took my shift,” he said, working at Ginny's ear like she loved.

“He is a very nice man,”

“Couldn't ask for a better stepson,” he said, breathing in her ear, Ginny feeling a familiar tightness grip her and a vibration in her core which caused a wrenching realization to snap her back to the present.

“Oh, Draco…I would love to, but Hermione says no sex,” she said and Draco stopped in his rocking and pulled back enough to look at her.

“You talk about our sex-life with Granger?” he asked, sounding mildly outraged, as outraged as he could manage. He actually made himself seem more disgusted than anything, which was likely not far from the truth. “You better be honest in how stupendously fabulous it is or I will be quite emasculated.”

“No…” she almost laughed, glad Draco was making humor of the moment since talking about Hermione after her fight left her far from jolly. “But she is my care-giver, and she saw the evidence of our behavior when examining me.”

“Do I really leave marks?” he asked, Ginny pulling her collar down to show Draco the two hickies she had. Draco seemed both embarrassed and proud.

“Still have those fingernail marks down your back?” she asked, almost challengingly, Draco winking at her.

“Still, Draco, all joking aside…she is not policing our personal life,”

“Like hell she isn't trying,” he grumbled.

“She is just concerned for the baby. She says -strongly advises and stresses- that we should abstain until the baby is born. The risk of pre-mature labor or even miscarriage is too grate as it is, and intercourse only increases those risks,” she said sadly, looking into Draco's eyes and trying to assure him that everything was fine otherwise, nothing to be worried about, just a precaution, nothing major.

“But…no sex?” he said, understanding already what Ginny wanted to get across and now hung up on the detail that irked him just that much more. He had come to Ginny's office in the past, and had sex with her. Once during their affair he had snuck up to her office to have sex with her on her desk. It had been a real rush given how easily someone could have caught them, discovered the affair, gotten an eyeful. Since then, once everyone knew they were a couple, he would stop by once in a while, causing heads to turn. Most of the time it had just been for casual greetings and some time spent in each other's company. Occasionally, however, it had been him bending her over her desk and…well…it wasn't that he was feeling all that fabulous today, and Ginny was too pregnant to be hoisting her about and fucking her brains out…but he had hoped for a little naughty business, to keep the nosey secretaries out in the hall gossiping.

“I know,” she said, hugging him again. She held him for a moment before a smile broke across her face that reeked of pure mischief. “She didn't say anything about fooling around in other ways though,” she said, Draco's eyes opening as he realized that too, a smirk pulling at his lips while he held Ginny close still, her hand reaching down for his belt.

-----------------------

“Why can't you tell me what this is all about?” Ginny laughed, Draco walking behind her so close his body was bumping against her back, his right hand reaching up and around to keep her eyes covered, guiding Ginny along carefully.

“It's a surprise. The nature of it is that I cannot tell you,” he drawled, helping Ginny up the stairs, whispering to her when there was an obstacle to be mindful of, laughing each time she demanded to know what he was up to. She had come to understand that Draco was a sweetheart and a total romantic underneath all his protective layers, but he never ceased to surprise her with some of the spontaneous and quirky things he did in the name of his love for her. Dancing around in his underwear and socks while singing her love songs into a hairbrush was only one of them, but certainly a favorite, one that he would deny adamantly should anyone find out.

“There is a doorway…just there,” he directed, Ginny raising her arms in preparation, her left feeling the wood and holding onto that as she walked with Draco into the room. “Okay, stop, stop,” he said softly, hand still over Ginny's eyes.

Ginny was grinning wide despite herself, still giddy after their little romp in her office. They hadn't had sex, well, she hadn't at least. A little foreplay and such was all fun, and it had been a while since she had tasted him, so it had actually turned out to be a nice change of both scene and method. He rarely asked for it, but she knew he loved it, really loved it, and she didn't mind pleasing him when he was always so ready to do the same for her. The pleasure for her came from pleasing him. Maybe that was sappy, but it was true.

“Awright,” he whispered into her ear, knowing that drove her crazy to feel his warm breath there. Ginny giggled and didn't open her eyes right away after Draco removed his hand, but when she did her mouth dropped open.

They were home at Number Twelve, in the nursery, but it wasn't the sad, half-empty state of plastic tarps and unopened paint cans it normally was, it was a fully painted, furnished, and finished room, ready for baby. Ginny looked around at the bright bold colors, the happy jungle animals running around on the border, the dresser and changing table in place, the rug in the center of the room, the curtains hung…it was just like she had imagined it, and had described a hundred times to Draco.

“Draco…” she said, breathless, speechless, thrilled to the point of stunned.

“I know I have been the root of a lot of your stress lately, and I know I have been rather unrelenting in my stubbornness over a great deal many things which have only cause you more headaches,” he said softly, Ginny wide-eyed as she looked around the room, trying to shake her head to what he was saying at the same time but Draco pressing on. “I wanted this to be part of my apology,” he said into her ear, still pressed up against her back like before but hugging her this time, chin hooked over her shoulder so he could see all she was looking at.

“You, you wanted white though,” she said, looking around at the cheery room and it being how she had dreamed, but not how he had. It was everything she had wanted in the room, but nothing of his.

“Maybe this will help me get a little more say when it comes to the name?” he asked, Ginny laughing because she knew he was hopeful, but teasing.

“I don't think so,” she said, Draco just breathing in deeply her scent and hugging her a little tighter under the breasts but over the stomach. “When did you have time to do this? How did you do this? You have been in no way up to such an undertaking,” Ginny said, knowing the room was still fresh, probably even still wet in spots.

“Having a grounded son has its advantages. I have one good arm, he has two, and a considerable reach, so between the both of us with a little help from Nymphadora and Remus, we got this nearly done last night, finished it this morning,” he said, knowing Michelangelo had made a stink about having to do such work, but Draco knowing his son was starting to get anxious about being a big brother again, this time to a much smaller sibling. He had just been introduced to a brother, now he was soon to have another, if not a sister, and Draco knew Michelangelo was excited as well as scared shitless.

He understood the feeling.

“There are two cribs” she observed, seeing the two similar but still distinctly different cribs, one on each wall.

“I couldn't decide between the two,” he said meekly as he pulled away to stand beside her now, the lie weak, especially for him. It was obvious that he had come to terms with the very real possibility that they were having twins and had made accommodations should the likely event occur.

“Lions?” she asked, looking at the giant stuffed animals settled in each crib, like place-holders, their big button eyes staring off into nothingness, their fluffy manes golden and clean.

“They go with the jungle theme,” he said rather defensively, “And I knew my Gryffindor girlfriend would appreciate them.”

“Yeah, but I would think the Slytherin daddy wouldn't approve.”

“There is a big, green, stuffed snake wound around the leg of the changing cupboard over there, don't think of this as any kind of secession on my part, our little girl is going to be in Slytherin,” he said quite confidently.

“Well, when our little boy is sorted into Gryffindor, I will be sure to offer you a tissue,” she teased, Draco leering at her and Ginny laughing. “This is so perfect, Draco, oh-my-god,” Ginny said, surprising him by gabbing the sides of his face in her palms and kissing him. He kissed her back, hands resting in that deep sweep that had become of her lower back, knowing his baby was coming, and hoping that he would be allowed to keep it, him unable to admit to Ginny the reason he hadn't come to a decision on the nursery yet with her was he couldn't bear the act of establishing, and furnishing a room, for a child he wouldn't have. If the baby didn't make it, or if it was taken from him at birth, to have to eventually dismantle the room would crush him, not to mention Ginny. The fact that they were not in the clear yet, but were standing in the room now made his eyes well-up with tears. Ginny felt his shoulders shaking, and a warm tear hit her cheek.

“Draco,” she said, this moment having been so happy, so beautiful, so perfect, and now he was crying. She was used to these sorts of mood swings for him, but that didn't make them any more predictable, or easy.

“I'm sorry,” he said, not crying, but eyes watering, shoulders shaking. It was obvious he was crumbling on the inside but trying to hold it together. He seemed to have it in his mind that it was unacceptable for men to cry.

“It's alright,” she said, hugging him tight. She had a feeling she knew what this was about, given what Hermione had told her. “I wish you would confide in me.”

“I do,” he said softly.

“Then why didn't you tell me about the trouble you're in with the Ministry over this baby?” she asked, trying to sound understanding rather than accusatory, because that's the last thing she intended.

“I…I didn't want you to get in trouble,” he said, knowing Hermione must have said something to Ginny, them each having seen her that day and Ginny clearly agitated after leaving her appointment. She said they had fought about him again, Draco thought he now knew the reason, without needing to read her.

“Draco, you can't protect me by keeping me in the dark, lying to me, and pretending everything is okay. Things are not okay, that is the way of life, but I can help things get better with you. Things can be better even when they are not great, when you have the support of someone you love.”

“Then you know about the situation?” he asked, a little timidly.

“I was told the Ministry wants to make it so this situation never arises again.”

“They tried to sterilize me…again,” he said and Ginny hugged him tightly so he wouldn't see her horrified face. “It wasn't carried out, again…Potter intervened and promised to say nothing about it -clearly he failed in that much- but the Ministry is still angry. They will take this baby from us if they can,” he said and Ginny shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes then. Draco wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her tight, held her in a way that was so possessive and protective; it was almost a little insecure. “I will not let anyone touch you Ginny, no one will take our baby,” he said, that being a promise.

“Why are they doing this? Why does it have to be like this? Can't they see that you are just a man, and I am just a woman, and we are having a child, a child conceived between two loving people, something beautiful?” she sobbed, Draco rocking her.

“I don't know, my love. I don't know,” he said, standing in that cheery room, crying with the mother of his yet-born child, uncertain of their fate, and scared shitless over their options.

-------------------------

“Where have you been?” Draco asked, very casually leaning in the doorway to the parlor, his mother having just walked in from the hallway, opening her jacket as she went but surprised by Draco's presence. She had just come in, it was evening, and she hadn't been home all day.

“Oh, Angel-dear, you startled me,” she said with a breath out as she shook out her open jacket, looking flustered, more than she should have been if she weren't guilty of something.

“Where were you?” he asked again, looking at her, wishing his medications didn't make his mind so fuzzy because he couldn't read anyone properly today, though his mother was always a particular challenge given that she had learned Occlumency, like both his aunts had. He could pry if she didn't have anything to hide and didn't put forth an effort to stop him, and the fact that she was stopping him now gave him a strong feeling she was hiding something. He was sick, she wouldn't have to try so hard to keep him out if she weren't scared he would manage to see something he wouldn't like.

“Last minute shopping for the shower,” she said, such a good liar, Draco learned it from her after all.

“You bought Ginny her shower gift weeks ago,” Draco said, Narcissa's lie bad, her delivery what was flawless. “You have been awfully scarce since this whole Connor issue arose,” he then accused and his mother's habit of wrinkling her nose when flustered giving her away. “You knew about him and never told me?” he asked, sounding hurt when his dull eyes could not look it.

“I didn't think it was my place to say anything.”

“That has never stopped you before. I mean, you hated Christina, you made that much clear from the moment I told you about the two of us, but letting me know that my wife had a son -who incidentally is my age- would have been a nice tidbit to know when spewing out all the other reasons you hated her.”

“Angel, I talked to her about it way back in the beginning. She and I might not have been close, but we were civil. We discussed the matter and agreed that it was best that you not know, Connor not being a part of her life at that point. It would have served you no good to know, and it would have only further complicated your already difficult relationship.”

“Then why not tell me later? Christina has been dead for nine years, I have been out of Azkaban for almost four…at no point you thought maybe it should be brought up?”

“For what point or purpose? To make your life that much more tumultuous than it already is? He didn't want to be a nuisance, so I…”

“Wait, you mean you talked to him?” Draco interrupted, blinking at his mother.

“Angel, I never lied to you,” Narcissa started by saying. “I located Connor some time after getting out of Azkaban. He was already aware of you and of your family with his mother. He asked if I would keep his existence a secret, and I honored that.”

“And I don't even have to ask you your feelings on the matter,” Draco said, as coldly as he could manage, which was lukewarm at best. He just didn't have the emphasis he normally could tag onto his drawling tones. He actually just sounded tired.

“Angel…”

“You thought she was a whore, and I always assumed you were implicating her in her tacit infidelity. I didn't realize all those years you were alluding to the fact that you knew she had a son.”

“You are angry with me,” Narcissa sighed.

“Yes, I damn well am, and you still haven't told me where you have been,” he drawled moodily.

“I was out with my sister, Angel, I have been known to do that,” she said quite crisply, standing perfectly straight, hair in her always no-nonsense bun. She had started growing it out in the past few months, going from a crisp short cut to a longer more youthful style if it weren't for the fact that she wore it in such a serious bun. Draco thought this change was odd.

“Not by choice you don't.”

“Things change,” she said, moving past him while using her “that's that” tone that Draco had learned to use with his own children, implying that the conversation was over. Draco knew that was her intent, but pressed on, he wasn't a child.

“So what has changed? It certainly isn't your relationship with Aunt Andromeda, I know, because I called her two hours ago looking for you and she said she hadn't seen you since my birthday party,” he said, unfolding his arms to follow after his mother who froze by the table where she had set down her purse and it was obvious by her shoulders that she was holding her breath, and if Draco knew her, she was pursing her lips together while considering her words. “Why lie to me?” he asked, sounding a little hurt.

“Draco,” she sighed, turning around, Draco not taking much comfort already in his mother actually using his name. “I'm tired, and I really don't think I have to explain to you where I have been. You can be mad at me over Connor if you like, but understand that I have a life outside of being your mother, and the formally acting mother for your children. I am not out playing bingo, and I'm not out clubbing either. I am something in-between those things, none of which is any of your business,” she said quite crisply, walking away right then with a dignified fury that left Draco to lean there, pouting slightly, irate and annoyed, perplexed and curious.

“Dre?” Ginny asked, walking in after having Narcissa practically storm past.

“I think my mother is seeing someone,” Draco said, looking beyond Ginny though his mother was no longer in view.

“I think she is just getting a breath of fresh air now that she no longer carries the responsibility of being the mother to your children,” Ginny said, though not disputing what Draco said, opening up more than just that one option instead. “She was married to your father and a mother to you since she was, what, eighteen? She spent three years in Azkaban after her life fell apart and then acted as a mother to your two children for more than nine years. Now she is finding more freedom than she has ever experienced in, well, probably her whole life. Let her enjoy it, I think she deserve it,” Ginny said, the whole time walking up to Draco and inserting her arms under his and wrapping them around him, hugging him with her big belly between them, smiling at him as he continued to pout. “I don't honestly think your mother is dating anyone, Draco,” Ginny assured, not sure why she felt that way, just sure of it. Narcissa was up to something, that was true, but it was certainly nothing nefarious nor odious. Draco seemed to think there couldn't be anything possibly worse than his mother dating, and Ginny didn't exactly think that was fair. Narcissa deserved a bit of happiness, in whatever it was she found it in.

Draco sighed, and finally relented in his pouting to hug Ginny back, kissing her forehead and rocking her side to side.

“You up for tonight?” Ginny asked, knowing Draco was still weak, but the potion he had received doing wonders for him.

“Physically I feel better than I have since before the moon, which is surprising and I hope it lasts,” he said, knowing he had only answered half of Ginny's question at that point. “You know I always feel a little awkward amongst all your friends and ex-Order members. It's like they are all staring at me,” he finally admitted, Ginny smiling kindly at him.

“But you love babies.”

“They are delicious,” he said and Ginny dropped open her mouth and elbowed him, Draco “umph”ing but smiling at the same time, wrestling with Ginny's arms and eventually overpowering her so that he had her wrists and Ginny could do little to stop him as he leaned in to kiss her.

Author's Note:

Wow I work a lot. Only 64.5 hours this week, but gosh do I find it difficult to find time to work on this fic. It is Draco's birthday though -HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY- so I HAD to update.

Was this update everything you were hoping it would be? Yes there was angst, but Draco is getting better, he will actually be close to healthy for a while, unless some unforeseen (by me) event happens and he is hurt or sick again. I don't THINK so, so here's hoping.

What is up with the investigation? Can't wait to get back into it, it's what I loved about BEA.

I hate Granger.

Ginny and Granger fight a lot. Lol.

Draco's nursery is SO cute!!!! He is such a good daddy. *sighs*

Yes, Connor is a little depressed over having seen his mother in those home movies, being lovey with her other children. *sad face*

What is up with Narcissa? Lol

Are Ginny and Draco having twins?

Who is attacking the werewolves?

When will Draco hook Ron up on that date he promised?

Hhhmmmmmm

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DRACO! He is 28 today. In my fiction he is 30, so two years from now this all happens, I SWEAR!!!! XD

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