Chapter Text
He arrives on a boat during a particularly stormy day.
Harry knew Astoria Greengrass had sent for a husband, someone to keep her company on the particularly dreary and dark winter days on this remote island. Someone to bring some light to her life and provide an heir to the Greengrass estate. Harry didn’t know who it was she had arranged to be sent here. All he knew was that the weather was horrid today, and the Portkeys had never properly worked in this remote corner of the North Sea. The island was special, its magic working in odd and surprising ways. Harry had discovered it almost by accident, during his first proper—and only—mission as an Auror trainee. He loved it so much that he decided to leave everything behind and just move here, away from the press and everyone’s absurd expectations of him. No one except for a handful of close friends knew he lived here.
He stands on the beach now, soaking wet because his Impervius never seems to work on particularly stormy days, as if the island wanted everyone to be miserable and wet. Harry doesn’t even know why he decided to help Astoria collect her future husband to bring him to the estate. Maybe it’s because he takes pity on her and her blood curse, even though she seems in good spirits lately and the island’s restorative magic keeps her alive. Perhaps it’s because she helped him find a job when he first moved here, and he still feels a bit indebted to her. Still, Harry groans as his boots sink into the wet sand and the strong wind threatens to flip the hoodie of his coat. He can’t see a thing with his wet glasses, so he peers over them and spots a dark mass in the middle of the beach, close to the water’s edge.
He gapes when he notices the amount of boxes and suitcases amassed on the sand, frowning as he gets closer and realises that one of them is absolutely huge. There’s no chance he will be able to Levitate everything to Astoria’s house, unless her future husband is a wizard with an incredible amount of magic. But still, Harry knows some people struggle to cast here, and many wixen have left because the island didn’t seem to welcome them and their magic on its shores.
As he approaches the baggage scattered on the beach, Harry wonders what on earth the huge box could possibly contain, but then he’s distracted by a small, round shape. It’s like a tiny tent, black and made of fabric, a soft light coming from within.
“Hello!” Harry calls, his voice getting carried away by the wind. He moves closer, the squelching sound of his boots drowned by the waves crashing on the shore. “Hello?”
Something moves in the little tent, making it shift and wobble before a pale hand appears from one of the gaps. The fingers are long and elegant, and Harry can’t help but gape as they move sinuously over the fabric to swiftly undo buttons until a figure emerges. White-blond hair gathered in a loose braid, eyes the same colour as the winter sky, and a surprised expression that probably matches Harry’s.
Harry looks at Draco Malfoy, a lock of hair plastered to his pale face as his grey eyes just stare at him, unblinking, causing a storm to wreak havoc in Harry’s stomach.
It’s been so long since they’ve seen each other. A little over six years. Harry likes to pretend that he never thinks about those nights, about what could have happened between them, had Harry not been as traumatised and depressed as he was at twenty. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that he ordered a Pensieve three years ago and sometimes indulges in an extra glass of wine during particularly lonely nights and relives the memories of the time they spent together. He tries not to think about the way Malfoy unravelled under his hands, asking for more, begging for it as Harry took and took, desperate with need. It felt so unbelievably good to be inside Malfoy, to kiss his sweet skin and soft lips. To suck on his milky-white neck until red marks blossomed on it, pretty and lovely. He drank in every sigh and gasp and moan that came out of those perfect lips, thinking that he couldn’t have this, that this was nothing but a dream. Harry was too fucked up for love. Too broken for one-night stands. And yet, there he was, tumbling into Malfoy’s bed after months spent working together and getting to know him better.
He wasn’t expecting to fall for him. Harry had barely come to terms with the fact that he was gay when he realised he was spending more and more time at the Ministry Archives, where Malfoy was working. He kept on finding excuses to go and look at old cases or study this or that for his Auror exams, but he only realised much later that the only purpose of his visits was to get to see Malfoy and chat with him.
Malfoy was so interesting, with a peculiar book always in hand and an opinion on everything. They had grown familiar during their eighth year at Hogwarts, a tired truce turning into peaceful and tentative gestures of friendship. Malfoy used to help him with his homework, and Harry dragged him out flying for games of Seekers that no one seemed to want to play with him. But this—this felt different. Chatting with Malfoy; watching him smile and playfully tap Harry’s hand or offering him a perfectly brewed cup of tea and a croissant, even though Harry wasn’t even supposed to bring drinks or food inside the Archive.
It had felt almost inevitable to want him, to need to feel what it was like to properly touch Malfoy’s milky-white skin and discover what he would look and sound like while he was coming undone under Harry. He hadn’t thought he would have any chance with him, though, but then, they had met one evening in a Muggle gay club. It was Harry’s first time, and he was nervous and awkward as he tried to catch the bartender’s attention to order a drink. That’s when he spotted Malfoy, staring back at him as if he had been struck by lightning, his cheeks aflame and lips quivering as he took a step towards Harry, then another.
They Apparated to Malfoy’s flat after a mere five minutes of looking into each other’s eyes and finding something mirrored there, a want and a need that Harry had tried to keep hidden but that was now bursting out of him.
That first night they slept with each other, Harry had taken Malfoy twice, the first time on his hands and knees, because he wasn’t sure he could face his old enemy while he fucked him breathless, and the second time on his back, slowly and deeply, because by then Harry was lost to it, to the feeling of Draco unravelling because of him and begging for more with his pink lips wet from all the kisses they had shared.
It went on for months. The more Harry felt desperately inadequate about his job and his life, the more he felt the need to have Malfoy close to him, warm and naked, whispering in his ear that Harry was absolutely perfect. It felt wrong to take so much from Malfoy when Harry had barely anything to give in return. His heart was shattered. His mind a mess. He couldn’t take the pressure of being the Boy Who Lived anymore. He couldn’t sleep at night and couldn’t function at work. Robarts kept on shouting at him. Hermione wouldn’t stop nagging him. Harry felt so lost and broken that he felt like he was going to fall apart any minute.
The morning he left, he did it before Malfoy had a chance to wake up and look at him again with those deep, grey eyes and make him regret his decision to leave. Harry knew he would have stayed otherwise, but he couldn’t really afford to lose himself when there was barely anything left of him to lose. He had lingered for a moment, though, gazing at Malfoy’s sleeping figure and carefully brushing a soft strand of white-blond hair from his serene face. Harry had only left one message on a scrap piece of paper he found on Malfoy’s bedside table. A quick Sorry, forget this ever happened before he got on a plane and disappeared from England.
He knew he was a coward, but he couldn’t take it any longer. The pressure of the press breathing down his neck. The fact that being an Auror was destroying him, even though everyone was expecting him to be brilliant at it. Hermione saying he needed to go to therapy. Ron turning out to be the perfect Auror and perfect husband and everything Harry would never be. He had been thinking about the island since the moment he had returned from it, mesmerised by the way his magic felt at peace while he was there, and fascinated by its raw nature and breath-taking landscape.
He didn’t want anyone to know where he was going, so he avoided taking Portkeys, jumping on a plane to Oslo instead, and then backpacking his way to Bergen, where he took a boat to the island. He had seen a couple of houses for sale, and he used most of the Galleons in his Gringotts vault to buy the cosiest one of them, a small house with a stunning view of the sea, and a tiny vegetable garden where he could try to grow things, if magic allowed—he knew by then that it was not a matter of what spell you used, but more of what the island allowed you to take from it.
It was hard at first, being away from his friends and from Malfoy, but it was also easier than anything else he had ever done. He felt at peace, surrounded by raw nature and with nothing but lunch and dinner to worry about. He liked to sit on the beach and close his eyes, the wind ruffling his hair and blowing all the bad thoughts away. He was just a bloke here. A young man with a house on the beach.
He did miss Malfoy. The feeling of his warm hands and lips on him, his sweet voice whispering in Harry’s ears the most tender and filthy things that would set his blood alight and make him melt. But he thought Draco was better off without someone like him. That as soon as the press had found out about them, they would have made Malfoy’s life an absolute misery. It’s not like they were together anyway. Malfoy had been clear about his family’s expectations of him and needed to keep his sexual orientation a secret from everyone. And Harry knew he was always under the spotlight, so it was only a matter of time before Malfoy’s life got destroyed because of him.
So, he stayed on the island, in his cosy little house that smelled like the sea, and he learned to live there. The community on the island was small but close-knit. Everyone minded their own business, but they welcomed Harry without having a clue who he was, and most of them spoke a Shetland dialect that Harry really struggled to understand. The only person who knew him was Astoria, but she didn’t seem to have any intentions to tell the press or anyone else that Harry was here. She was simply glad to have someone to keep her company.
“This is the only place where my blood curse won’t kill me,” she explained when Harry awkwardly sat down in front of her for a cup of tea and some homemade biscuits. “No one else wanted to come here with me because this bloody island is too isolated. It feels lonely, especially in winter, when the days are dark and so long. The sun rises at nine and sets at three, did you know? It feels like darkness swallows up everything…but when summer finally comes, the daylight seems never-ending.”
Astoria was very down-to-earth and simply called him Harry from day one, forgoing any formalities, which he really appreciated since he had never been one for small talk and impeccable manners.
“Have you been living here for long?” he asked, and she grimaced.
“Since the end of the war,” she replied, taking a small sip of her tea. Her nails were painted a cerulean blue, a colour that matched her blouse and her eyes, which were studying Harry as if he were an interesting problem to solve. “Do you have a job, Harry?”
He shrugged at her question and just looked outside the window.
“I have no idea what to do,” he candidly replied. “My money is going to run out eventually, so I ought to find something, but—I’m not that good at anything but fighting and surviving, really...”
It was hard to say it out loud, to confess it to someone. He had thought being an Auror would be easy, but there was so much paperwork and strict rules to follow and manuals to learn by heart. His brain felt like a colander after the war, and he couldn’t remember much, even after reading it multiple times. Harry had assumed he would get to simply fight evil criminals and bring some justice to this world, but he hadn’t been prepared for the heartache when a case went terribly wrong, or the utter frustration that ate at him when the justice system was so infuriatingly slow that it seemed non-existent.
“Fear not, my dear,” Astoria said with a smile, her fingers reaching for a biscuit and holding it gingerly as she gazed at him. “I have the perfect job for you.”
The job turned out to be a lot weirder than Harry had thought. Astoria needed special potions to make her feel better, because the blood curse left a debilitating impact on her body before she moved to the island. The problem was that most of these potions required special ingredients.
“Seaweed?” Harry asked, scrunching up his nose. “How am I going to get that? I can barely swim.”
“You can’t get it. It’s impossible to reach the place where it grows,” Astoria explained, slowly rising from her chair on wobbly knees. Harry instantly stood up to help her, but she swatted his hand away and reached for her cane instead. She slowly walked to the massive window that faced the seafront and stared at the cliffs in the distance. “Muggles and wixen can’t get the seaweed that I need, but there’s someone who can.”
Harry tilted his head and waited for her to continue. He started to wonder what on earth he had just got himself into.
Astoria reached for his elbow and pulled him closer to the window, pointing at the beach. Harry could see something in the distance, but the light was already fading, and he squinted to better see.
“Seals?” he asked, recognising the grey animals as they moved gracelessly on the sand.
“Not seals,” Astoria replied, shaking her head and looking amused. “Selkies.”
Harry couldn’t believe his ears when Astoria explained that once a week, the selkies would emerge from the sea and abandon their pelts in a safe place to take human form.
“What do they do that for?” Harry asked, confused.
“They want something from us,” Astoria explained, taking Harry back to the table and pouring more tea for both of them. “They particularly like our food and things like knives and crab pots. They also seem to fancy other things that you and I might consider inconsequential, like colourful clothes and crockery. There was a local man who used to trade with them, but he left the island last year in search of work on the mainland. I need that seaweed for my potions. I brew them myself, and they help me feel better. The problem is that I can’t leave the house, and I lack the patience to deal with selkies. Plus, they much prefer a good-looking man like you.”
She winked at him, and Harry couldn’t help but blush. He never knew how to react when people complimented him. His mind was suddenly brought back to that bedroom, to Draco falling apart under him, his voice so sweet when he repeated that Harry felt so good, that he felt perfect inside him, like that, a little harder, deeper.
Harry cleared his voice and swallowed loudly.
He couldn’t think about Malfoy. Not now, not ever.
“I’m going to give it a go with the selkies,” he said, and Astoria beamed at him, suddenly looking younger with her dark hair falling over her face as she knocked her hairpin aside when she raised her arms in triumph. “But I don’t want to risk my life. I’m done fighting.”
“Don’t worry,” Astoria said, taking Harry’s hand and squeezing it, making him jump at the sudden and unexpected contact. “You won’t.”
Working with the selkies had proven a lot easier than Harry first thought. They did seem to particularly like him, both male and female selkies. They spent ages chatting with him on the beach and seemed terribly curious about his life and what humans did to spend their time. They were also incredibly generous with him, offering breath-taking seashells and extremely rare sea plants that Harry managed to sell to Astoria and to the local people after trading them for whatever the selkies asked. Harry didn’t want nor need much to survive, just enough Galleons to buy some food and the occasional book and warm jumper. But he ended up earning a lot more than he needed, especially when the selkies started giving him the pelts of their mates who had passed from old age. Harry didn’t know what to do with them at first, but when Astoria saw the first one, her eyes grew large and she let out a bewildered laugh, telling Harry he was going to become rich.
He put the money aside and hid the pelts. He didn’t know what for, since he didn’t plan to buy a bigger house or have a family. No one ever came to visit, and Harry never left the island. He felt the days slip by, charming and so precious in their uneventfulness. Harry watched the sun rise late in winter and smiled as the beautiful sunsets came later and later when spring trickled into summer.
He felt lonely, sometimes. He found himself missing the sound of his friends’ laughter or Mrs Weasley’s kindness. He missed the scent of Malfoy’s skin and the feeling of his fingers tracing invisible patterns on Harry’s back. The sound of his voice as he talked to Harry about the latest book he was reading. Harry cried himself to sleep some days, thinking he would die alone here, and other days he laughed so hard as the selkies danced around him, silly and full of life, dragging him into the sea for a chilly dip.
Some nights, he craved to be touched by warm hands, to kiss pale skin that smelled familiar and felt smooth under him. He touched himself in the darkness to the memories of those nights, over and over again. He bought that Pensieve with the money he got from selling the first selkie pelt, and that was probably his downfall because he thought he would go mad from the missing and the longing and the burning desire.
He pushed it down, down, down, thinking it would work.
But here it is. Standing tall and lanky, miserable like a soaked cat with his dark robes flapping wildly in the breeze, a look of utter shock on his pale face as Harry stands in front of him.
He can’t believe Astoria didn’t even think of telling him she sent for Draco sodding Malfoy as her future husband. Does she know that he’s gay? She knows Harry is, but he never confessed about sleeping with Malfoy to anyone.
Harry doesn’t know if he’s prepared to have his heart shattered to pieces all over again.
Still, he knows he’s the one at fault. He left Malfoy with a pitiful note after spending the most intense nights of his life with him. He can’t blame the man for wanting to make a new life for himself, possibly with a rich witch who could help him restore his reputation. Harry can’t blame him, not really, but he also can’t keep the rage and jealousy and anger at bay as he feels it rising in his stomach like bile.
This isn’t fair. He has tried to be good and stay away from trouble. Why has trouble come to knock at his door?
Malfoy gives him a sad look, full of longing and something that Harry can’t quite read, but he feels himself pulled towards the other man like a magnet. Harry offers his hand, like Malfoy did a million years ago, when they were two little brats who didn’t even know what they were doing.
Malfoy stands there, paralysed and silent, looking at the hand Harry is offering, wet and stretched between them. He moves slowly, as if in a dream, curling his long fingers around it and wrapping Harry in his warmth. And for a wild moment, Harry thinks he wants to keep him for himself, like the wildest treasure the sea has offered him.
He could take Malfoy home and keep him hidden under one of his pelts.
He would keep him dry and warm and safe in his house. In his arms.
“Papa?” a little voice suddenly comes from the tent, startling Harry before he cranes his neck to see who’s talking. A small head appears from the gap in the tent, with white-blond curls and eyes of an indefinite colour that remind Harry of the winter sky and the stormy sea. “Papa? Has this man come to get us? I’m cold.”
The last word is pronounced with a mournful tone, pale eyebrows knitting as the little boy grabs Malfoy’s coat and tries to pull him back inside the makeshift haven.
Reality suddenly hits Harry like a brick to the head.
This boy is Malfoy’s son. He called him papa.
“Is that—” Harry asks, pointing at the child with his other hand, staring at him and then at Malfoy, noticing all the similarities between them and feeling as if someone punched him really hard in the stomach. Malfoy had a child with someone. Someone other than Harry…
Malfoy suddenly lets go of Harry’s hand and starts gesticulating to the boy, his hands moving quickly, forming shapes and fluttering in a mesmerising way as his mouth moves silently, no sound escaping those pink lips while he communicates with the boy.
“But papa,” the boy tries to argue, then he stares at Harry with a worried expression before Malfoy lets out a little huff and makes a sharp movement with his hands. “Alright…”
“What—” Harry starts, confused as to why Malfoy is not talking to him but seems to be using sign language to a little boy that looks like a rumpled picture of a younger Malfoy.
“Papa wants to know if you’re here to take us to our new home,” the boy says diligently, casting an eye towards his dad, who nods at him and then raises an eyebrow as if to prod him to continue. “He asks if it’s just you, and how you’re going to carry all our things to the house.”
Harry scoffs, letting out an incredulous laugh as he looks at all the boxes scattered around them.
“There’s no way we can take all these boxes with us now,” he replies, upon which Malfoy frowns deeply at him and makes more signs with his elegant hands.
“Papa says—”
“Your dad can tell me himself,” Harry interrupts, feeling increasingly irritated by the fact that Malfoy is pointedly ignoring him and using his son as an interpreter instead. Is he that mad at Harry for what happened between them that he won’t even share a word with him?
“But papa doesn’t talk,” the child simply states, his eyes a clear grey, almost pistachio green as they stare at Harry. “He can’t speak.”
Harry’s mouth opens as he tries to catch Malfoy’s gaze, but the other man avoids his eyes and stares at the huge box lying on the sand, the water slowly inching away. Harry thinks it won’t be long before the waves start licking at its four legs. The boy’s words slowly sink in, and for a moment, Harry is at a loss for what to say or think.
Malfoy can’t speak.
Has he been hit by a curse or did he get ill? Harry suddenly feels guilty, wonders if things would have been different had he stayed in London. Would he have managed to keep Draco safe and prevent this from happening?
“Err…” he mumbles, scratching his chin and wondering what to do. “I can’t levitate the big box.”
Malfoy’s face turns towards him, an imploring look finally finding Harry’s eyes.
“But papa needs it,” the boy says, stepping closer and grabbing the hem of Harry’s coat. “Please. We have to take it with us.”
“It’s too heavy for me,” Harry explains, his mind racing, trying to conjure up an impossible solution. “I can try to carry some of your luggage, but that thing will probably require several people, and the weather is too bad today. The magic won’t work.”
Malfoy moves, then, crossing the distance between the little tent and the humongous box. He breaks the wood that keeps its contents encased and slides his hand inside, his grey eyes drifting shut like they did every time Harry gave him pleasure, pink lips parting as a melody emerges from the wooden crate.
It’s a piano.
Harry doesn’t know why it took him so long to realise. Malfoy plays it with only one hand, but the music is absolutely stunning, so delicate and melancholic that the storm seems to abate. The rain stops falling for a moment, and the strong winds turn into a gentle breeze as Malfoy continues playing. It’s a melody that seems to blossom from his heart, sad and full of longing, and Harry again feels attracted to him like a magnet, inevitably and inexorably.
“Papa hasn’t been able to play since we left England,” the boy explains, dancing on his feet. “He’s been so sad.”
“What’s your name?” Harry murmurs, looking down at that white-blond head that looks like it’s covered in the softest feathers.
“Scorpius Malfoy,” the boy replies.
“I’m Harry,” he says. “Harry Potter.”
The boy frowns and looks up at him, studying him for a long moment.
“Mamie Narcissa always said you were a nice man,” Scorpius declares. “Grandfather Lucius didn’t agree, but he’s mean. I don’t like him…he’s always rude to papa, and he sent us here when Mamie died. I liked my old house. I had a cat. She was called Stella, which means ‘star’ in Latin. Do you have a pet, Harry?”
“Err…no,” Harry confesses, a bit confused by the stream of words suddenly coming from the boy. He’s a charming little man, and Harry finds himself smiling at him.
“What are we going to do about Papa’s piano?” Scorpius asks, looking upset all of a sudden. “If we leave it here, it’s going to get ruined.”
“I can’t carry it,” Harry says pensively, a thought suddenly coming to mind. “But I can make sure it stays safe.”
Malfoy’s eyes open and stare at him, the music changing, slowing down as his gaze follows Harry while he walks towards the water and brings his fingers to his mouth to let out a series of loud whistles.
“What are you doing, Harry?” Scorpius asks, trotting to his side and looking excited.
“I’m calling for help,” Harry replies with a grin.
The first creature emerges from the water with a splash, soon followed by a second, then by another with its pup.
“Papa, look! Seals!” Scorpius shouts, running around excitedly and squealing in delight when one of them nudges its snout against his leg. Malfoy leaves the piano, the music ceasing abruptly as he takes his son’s arm and jerks him away, as if scared.
“They’re selkies,” Harry explains, and Malfoy’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “They won’t hurt him. They’re my friends.”
Harry quickly speaks to the selkies, explaining that he would like them to protect the box and make sure it doesn’t get damaged until his return with more wixen who can help carry it to Astoria’s house. Malfoy seems entranced by the scene, and his eyebrows crease in desperation when Harry gathers a few of the boxes in his hands and tells them they ought to leave before the storm starts again.
Harry realises that the makeshift tent was actually Malfoy’s cloak when he touches it with the tip of his wand and the fabric becomes floppy before it gets wrapped around Malfoy’s shoulders, hiding the little boy underneath its folds before they start to make their way up the cliff’s edge, where a narrow and steep path will lead them to the main road and eventually to Astoria’s house.
“How do you manage to cast spells without speaking?” Harry asks Malfoy, who keeps on turning to look at his piano as if he were leaving another child behind.
Harry still can’t believe Malfoy is a father.
“Papa can do nonberbal spells,” Scorpius provides proudly.
“I think you mean nonverbal,” Harry says with a smile. The boy is absolutely adorable with his little outfit that makes him look like a miniature sailor.
“Mamie always said it was a real shame,” Scorpius continues, “because Papa used to be so good with his magic, and he had a nice job at the Mimistry, but there aren’t many spells he can do without his voice. I think Papa is amazing. He is the best at telling stories, and he can make my puppets dance. They’re still in a box on the beach, but we can show you later, if you want. He is also really good at making potions, and I always help him prepare the crates to send off. Also, Papa’s Lumos is really lovely because it changes colour.”
“It does?” Harry asks, turning to look at Malfoy, who seems embarrassed all of a sudden and signs something to Scorpius who pouts and stops talking.
They spend the rest of the trek in silence, and Harry has time to think. He wonders how Astoria will react when she realises Malfoy is practically mute. He doubts she understands sign language and wonders how on earth they are going to communicate.
How is Harry going to watch them fall in love and lead a happy, married life with a kid, wondering every single day if that could have been his life?
By the time they reach Astoria’s house, Harry has worked himself into a miserable mess, his manners too curt and tone brisk as he tells the house-elf to call her mistress because her guests have arrived. Guests, he thinks bitterly. More like future family.
Scorpius looks around in awe, gaping at the big balustrade and the portraits hanging on the walls, but his hands are gripping Malfoy’s robes so tightly that his little fingers are going white.
“Welcome!” Astoria calls before she comes into view, her steps slow as she approaches without her usual cane. She smiles at them, her lipstick red and glistening, matching the colour of her nails and making her look like a beautiful film star. Harry is always impressed by how attentive she is to her looks, despite the fact that there is no one here to admire them. “I hope your trip went well. I’m sorry you ended up leaving during the storm, but you made it safe and sound! Would you like something to eat or to drink?”
No one says anything for a long moment, and Malfoy purposely avoids everyone’s eyes, turning to face the nearest window instead, his hand protectively slung across Scorpius’s tiny shoulders.
“Can I have some water, please?” the child timidly asks, and Astoria claps her hands, making him jump.
“But of course, my dear!” she exclaims. “How about some juice as well? Pompom, please take Draco and Scorpius to the parlour for some refreshments. But first, let’s get your shoes off. You’re getting mud all over the carpet.”
“Ehm, Astoria,” Harry mumbles, moving closer to her. “Can I have a word, please?”
“Are you sure this can’t wait?” Astoria hisses, then she turns to smile lovingly at Scorpius, who follows his dad and the house-elf down the dark corridor. Harry waits for them to disappear while he tries to find the words to ask what he wants to know without appearing rude.
“Did you know Malfoy is mute?” Harry ends up asking point-blank. “And that he has a child?”
“But of course,” Astoria replies with a huff. “You didn’t think I was going to get pregnant to produce an heir? How gauche, Harry, seriously…I can barely sustain my own magic with this sodding blood curse.”
“And you knew Malfoy can’t speak?” Harry asks again, to which Astoria simply nods and rolls her eyes when he frowns at her. “Do you know sign language?”
“No, but I figured it was going to be easier if he doesn’t talk,” Astoria admits with a shrug. “Don’t you remember what he was like in school? He would never shut up. Gave me a headache all the time. This way, we can simply enjoy each other’s company in amicable silence.”
“But how are you going to communicate?” Harry asks, thinking that he used to love listening to Draco speak about his interests. That he spent so many afternoons entranced as Malfoy explained about intricate magical rituals or disappearing lakes in Greenland. He misses that like mad. “He’s your fiancé, for crying out loud. How on earth are you going to make it work?”
“He is most definitely not my fiancé,” Astoria announces serenely. “His father tried to sell him like cattle the day after Narcissa died. He wanted me to marry him as soon as he landed here; can you believe that? I put my conditions, of course. I said that we’re going to spend three months living under the same roof and sleeping in separate bedrooms, and if things work out, then we can get engaged and eventually get married. I’m not doing this the pure blood way with formal courting and whatnot. Draco is free to date whomever he wants, and so am I. If there’s a spark between us, then we can consider a relationship in the future. I’m not in a rush, and neither is Draco, by the looks of it.”
“But—” Harry tries to argue, thinking that Draco is most definitely one hundred percent gay, and there is no way he’s going to fall in love with her, even if she’s a lovely woman. Astoria brushes any other remonstration aside and starts making her way down the corridor.
“I have guests to attend to,” she points out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Harry stares at her and can hear Scorpius’s little voice, asking his dad when he can have his books to read and toys to play with. When they’ll be able to get their piano back. Harry feels so sorry for the way they’ve been sent here, probably without getting a say in it. He wonders how long they had to wait on the beach in the cold. He thinks about Scorpius without his things and feels a pang in his chest.
He's a bit tired after the trek, but he still makes up his mind and goes back to the shore, taking as many boxes as he can and thanking the selkies for using their magic to protect the piano. He has no idea how long it will take to gather enough people to carry it, especially because the other wixen are scattered around the island, and most of them are elderly and prefer not to use too much magic.
After the first trip, Harry heads back for the last few suitcases, panting as he slings a bag over his back and places a crate above his head before he faces the long climb back to Astoria’s house. He’s a sweaty mess by the time the last of the boxes joins the pile in Astoria’s foyer. Both Malfoys emerge from Astoria’s parlour with a surprised look when they spot all of their belongings in a neat pile by the front door.
“You’ve carried our things!” Scorpius exclaims, looking ecstatic as he starts rummaging around and opening boxes until he finds his illustrated books. “Daddy, can you read me this one by the fire?”
Malfoy seems to be in a daze, staring at the boxes, then at Harry, his expression blank. He takes a piece of paper from a small pad that he’s wearing around his neck—Harry didn’t notice it earlier because Malfoy was still wearing his cloak, but it makes sense that he has something on him to communicate—and he quickly scribbles something down and then offers the piece of paper to Harry.
Thank you, it simply says. Nothing else.
There are so many words stuck in Harry’s throat. Sorry for leaving you behind. Sorry for making a mess of things. Who did you have a child with and when? Was it straight after I left or did you wait a bit before forgetting the feeling of my arms around you?
Did you miss me?
“You’re welcome,” Harry replies instead, feeling his cheeks heat up as Malfoy’s gaze settles on him. There’s something unreadable in his eyes. Harry misses the warmth they used to have when Malfoy looked at him before Harry left. He missed that particular spark he’d see when Malfoy laughed at one of his jokes or how soft they used to be when Malfoy woke up next to him in bed.
Harry realises for the first time in six years, with absolute clarity, that he shouldn’t have left. Or that he should have asked Malfoy to come with him.
The thought of Malfoy marrying Astoria is suddenly too much to bear. It makes his chest hurt. It makes him want to scream.
“That was very kind of you, Harry,” Astoria says, appearing behind the Malfoys. “Let me get my purse.”
“I don’t want money,” Harry declares a little too gruffly, and Astoria looks taken aback for a moment. Malfoy’s grey eyes won’t leave him, and Harry feels the sudden urge to take his skinny wrist and drag Malfoy away from this house. To take him to Harry’s instead. To make a fresh start and get a second chance Harry probably doesn’t deserve. He’s the one who royally fucked up, after all.
“Thank you,” Scorpius chimes in with a dimple at the corner of his lips as he grins at him. “Papa and I can show you one of our puppet shows now! You’ll see, Harry. They’re super good! Papa can make them dance and do pilouettes.”
“They’re called pirouettes. Maybe another day, darling,” Astoria says, letting her hand rest on the boy’s head for a moment. “You’re all tired, and Harry has carried all these boxes for us, so he’ll probably want to go and have a rest.”
Scorpius looks extremely disappointed, his slim shoulders sagging as he looks forlornly at his dad, but Harry crouches down in front of him, smiling when they’re finally at eye level. They boy’s irises have the most peculiar colour, one that probably changes with the weather.
“I will come back another day, so that you can show me your puppet show,” Harry says. “I’m sure it’s brilliant.”
“Pinkie promise?” Scorpius asks, offering his little finger. Harry hesitates for a moment, looking up at Malfoy, searching for permission in his eyes. Malfoy stares back and then nods minutely. Harry grins back at Scorpius and wraps his pinkie around the child’s, shaking on it.
“Promise,” he says softly, and then he leaves.
But he can’t stop thinking about Malfoy on the way back home, swinging by the local grocery shop to get something for dinner. On stormy days like these, the ferry doesn’t even attempt to reach the island, so the inhabitants don’t get any fresh produce in the shop. Harry buys some tinned tomatoes and dry pasta for a simple dinner, wondering what Malfoy and his son are going to eat at Astoria’s.
He walks slowly, the wind picking up speed and intensity as if mirroring the turmoil in Harry’s heart.
He hadn’t realised how much he missed Malfoy until he appeared on the beach. How utterly miserable he was, forever trying to forget, avoiding thinking about the time they spent together and about the fact that Malfoy was probably the only good thing in the life he left behind in England.
He feels like crying when he finally spots his house, wanting to be inside in the warmth, to cuddle up on the sofa with a cup of tea and let himself cry or scream or just feel shit about everything.
He finds the front door open and frowns, wondering who on earth could get past his wards. Was someone after his pelts? Only Astoria knows about them, and Harry has only told her he was given one, not that he’s hiding a fortune under his bed.
He quickly raises his wand, muscle memory from his long lost days as an Auror kicking in, and barges in, ready to hex anyone.
The house is empty, though, but Harry finds a surprise right in the middle of his living room.
A piano.
Malfoy’s piano.
It’s still wrapped up safely in layers of padding, the remnants of the box scattered on the floor. Harry doesn’t even know how they managed to get it through the front door, but then he hears the distant call of the selkie and remembers that their magic is as powerful as it is peculiar.
He stares at the piano, unwrapping it slowly and then running his fingers along the keys, imagining all the times they were touched by Malfoy’s long fingers to make the most wonderful music.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
What is he supposed to do now?