Fic: Slugs and Snails
Oct. 20th, 2012 12:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omi_ohmyTitle: Slugs and Snails
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~4000
Summary: It isn't every day your ex-wife gets married. A gentle tale of love and gastropoda.
A/N: I wrote this as a wedding present for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saras_girl (originally posted here in the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wedding_eels community). Sara's Girl gave special permission for well-wishers to use any of her characters/worlds, so I wrote this shameless copy loving homage to Turn, the fic which turned me into a total HD shipper. Thanks to evilgiraff for the speedy beta - any remaining mistakes are my own.
Slugs and Snails
The slug moves, slightly, as Harry pulls the bench forwards. It glistens in the morning light, and Harry looks at it for at least a minute before he blinks and steps back. The slug is unconcerned and continues on its journey at its own, surprisingly fast, pace. Harry knows that Draco would roll his eyes if he were here, but he isn't, and Harry rather likes the shiny persistence of slugs. He watches as it disappears under wide leaves.
Now he has moved the bench, Harry can sit in the warmth of the September morning. Again, he knows that Draco won't like that he has moved the bench, but it was worth it to feel the sunshine on his face. It isn't every day that your ex-wife remarries and he needs a moment to let go, even though it has been nearly two years since they decided to split up. His moment of calm is broken by the excited call of his youngest child, as she comes hurtling out of the kitchen door, all legs and arms and her mother's smile.
“Dad!” she shouts, as she comes to messy halt in front of him. She is a little breathless from rushing, and Harry suspects she has come flying down the stairs all the way from her room. He hides an amused smile, and pats the bench beside him. Lily has been a whirlwind of non-stop chatter since she got home. In all fairness, she has had to endure two brothers – and Scorpius – talking about Hogwarts for years now, and she is only three weeks into her first year there.
“Come and tell your old dad about whatever has got you so excited.” He looks sideways at her, and feels a tug of his heart at the strands of long hair which are escaping onto her face: he feels twelve again, and he remembers Ginny's wide eyes and courage. Lily looks beautiful in that unconscious way that only a child can do, already bedecked in a sky blue dress, ready for her mother's wedding.
“Well, Dad, Draco and Scorpius just got home, and I heard Al and Scorpius talking and they said that there's going to be a Holyhead Harpies flyover at the wedding but I said that was ridiculous, so I told them that Mum said it wasn't the sky it was the ground to look out for because Blaise and uncle Neville have got some surprise but she wouldn't tell me what it was—” Lily stops and gulps for air, and Harry decides to interrupt before she can continue. He would feel guilty about cutting her off like this, but experience has taught him that otherwise she is likely to go on for quite some time.
“I think that we should just see what happens,” he says, “and just be happy for Mum and Blaise.”
“I suppose,” she says, then cocks her head to one side and looks up at him. He recognises the gesture: it is the one she makes outside shop windows, the one which is swiftly followed by a purchase and less money in his pocket. “Dad, do you know what the surprise is?”
He laughs, and reaches out to hug her to him. She is the only one now to accept hugs without embarrassment, and he takes them when he can. She smells of apples, and he kisses her on the head. “No I do not, and even if I did, if I told you it wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it?” She sniffs, but moves closer to him.
The pressure of his arm around Lily is enough to wake Misu, who is curled around his wrist. Her head pokes out from the edge of his sleeve, her tongue flicking in the air as she gets to grip with her surroundings.
“The young one is quiet,” she says with approval. Misu has enjoyed the past few weeks with all the children at school, and was a little nonplussed when they all appeared last night.
“Misu's always so beautiful,” sighs Lily. “I've missed you, little snake. Can I hold her, please?”
“My little one would like to hold you,” asks Harry. “May she?” Misu curls over and around his fingers while she decides how to answer. “She says that you are beautiful,” he adds, knowing that this will make a difference. Misu's head rises up, and she hisses in pleasure before making her way to Lily's waiting arm.
While Lily murmurs questions and comments to a surprisingly patient Misu, Harry looks around his little garden with pride. Garden is perhaps too grand a word for it – really it is more of a small and shady courtyard – but it is somewhere to open the back door onto. It always reminds him of his life with Draco: everything is laid out in ordered, symmetrical lines, every plant pot and object balanced by another, if not mirrored exactly, yet the plants grow as they will. His favourite is the small Japanese Maple in a large green pot; the leaves are just now beginning their turn from green to yellow and red, and he loves the brilliance of the colours as the sun shines through them.
He knows that he has been sitting out here for what is probably too long, and casts a quick Tempus just to check. With a sigh Harry retrieves Misu, who wraps herself back around his wrist while muttering something about food, and he pulls Lily up, smiling as she begins a story about her new friends and how much fun Potions is.
“I was wondering where you were,” is his only greeting from Draco, who is sitting in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea, but Harry knows that he has been tense all week, and ignores it. He also notices that there is a second cup on the side, with a warming charm over it, and smiles, glad that he has not made it into Draco's bad books today – well, not yet, anyway. As soon as Misu is safely in her tank and eating while mumbling to herself about “delicious” and “too much talking”, Harry reaches for the cup. The tea is hot, and he blows on it while trying to work out exactly what he needs to do next. He knows that he has two teenage boys to prod into getting ready – three including Scorpius – and they only have another two hours.
“How is Scorpius?” he asks, continuing his thoughts aloud, and Draco looks up from the crossword puzzle which has been holding his attention.
“Fine. He seems to have recovered from missing his Hogsmeade visit, and is currently upstairs planning some kind of mischief with your son.” Harry takes a breath to ask which one of his sons, even though he knows Draco means Al, because it will make him do that little exasperated sigh he saves for when Harry asks the obvious; but Draco gets there first. “The younger one, Harry,” he says, with his put-upon sigh, and Harry smiles to himself, perfectly aware of just how much they both love these exchanges. And then he sighs himself, as Draco's words sink in: Al and Scorpius are upstairs, together. It turns out that having the two boys under one roof is interesting, to say the least; George, it seems, has found a couple of protégés. “And yes, I did check him for wheezes as soon as we arrived,” Draco adds, his thoughts obviously travelling in a similar direction.
As if on cue, there is a crash and raucous laughter from upstairs. Harry's eyes flick up to the ceiling, but of course it tells him nothing. Looking back at Draco, he sees the tightness in his shoulders, and resolves to find time for a proper chat. They too have got used to a quiet house, although they have missed their children, and it is good to have everyone home. There seem to be three 'settings' for their home: quiet, slightly less quiet when Scorpius is around, and then off-the scale, Potter rambunctiousness when all his brood are present. Harry would feel bad for shaking Draco's life up like this, but the overwhelming warmth he feels when his children are with him balances everything out. In his mind, at least, Harry shakes his head: he can't help but think in terms of balance now.
“I'll go make sure they're....” he trails off. Draco gives him an absent-minded nod and turns back to the paper.
Lily has settled in at the other end of the table, with her Potions homework. She has already explained how she plans to get it finished before they leave, so that she can enjoy the rest of her weekend, Harry is surprised that she likes the subject so much, but discerns the influence of both Draco and Rose, who has taken her cousin under her wing since Lily sorted into Ravenclaw a few weeks ago. He smiles at the memory of Lily's disappointment that she didn't sort into Hufflepuff: the world certainly is changing. An unexpected question about Maura catches his breath for a moment: which house will she sort into? He shakes off the thought as he leaves the kitchen, with a little sigh of sadness. Besides, there are enough children in the house to occupy him, without getting distracted by the girl who doesn't exist here.
Upstairs things are surprisingly calm. Neither Al nor Scorpius are ready yet, of course, but they are both clean, even if the room is strewn with Chocolate Frog wrappers and odd socks, and their clothes for the wedding are laid out on their beds. The two boys are sitting on the floor playing Exploding Snap, and the sight brings back memories of the Gryffindor common room. A pile of books has been knocked over, obviously during a particularly exciting round of their game, which explains the crash Harry heard from downstairs.
“I want to see you dressed within the next hour,” he says, and they look up at him with twin expressions of exasperation.
“Dad, honestly, we're not babies,” says Al, and Scorpius nods vigourously.
“We'll be ready on time,” says Scorpius, who always sounds more conciliatory, but who is just as likely as Al to get distracted and forget something important. Or get into trouble.
“Oh yeah, Dad, we've got it all sorted,” says Al with a confident yet vague air of reassurance, and a wave of the hand in the direction of their clothes. Harry knows he should push them to hurry up – Draco would be fairly thrumming with nerves by now – but he doesn't have the heart to quash their earnestness, so leaves them with a reminder which sounds suspiciously like a list of everything they need to be wearing, and a weary request for them to tidy their room instead. In all honesty, he knows that it won't be tidy until they go back to Hogwarts tomorrow evening.
Making his way up the next flight of stairs, Harry resolves to pop back on his way down, just to see how they're doing; he won't believe that they're ready until, well, they're ready.
James is where he always is when he's home: in his room, practicing his guitar. It is clear from the way he is standing in front of the mirror that a large part of the appeal in playing is still how it makes him look. This son won't need any reminders about getting ready: he is concerned enough about his appearance to be relied upon to be perfectly turned out when it's time to leave.
Harry listens for a minute, and takes a deep breath; he honestly doesn't know how Muggle parents cope without silencing charms. A strange current of pride runs through him at the sight of his son, posing and making music all at once. Not for the first time, he is reminded of his own father, while at the same time feeling the all-too-familiar prickle of nostalgia at how quickly his children are growing up. He can't quite believe that James is a fourth-year already.
His moods are... interesting at the moment, but seeing him so enthralled by something is heartening.
“Hi, James,” he says, and James jumps back with embarrassment at being caught, before quickly reestablishing his balance and his oh-so-important cool.
“Dad,” says James, with a little Elvis-style nod of his head. “Do you want to hear me play?” he asks, his air of nonchalance ruined somewhat by the tremble of vulnerability in his voice.
“Oh course,” says Harry, and he sits on the edge of the bed, to give James his full attention. James fiddles with various knobs for a moment, then begins to play. Harry doesn't quite believe his ears for a moment, but James is playing a medley of Celestina Warbeck songs. Harry laughs, deep and loud from his belly, and feels some of the tension that has been building all morning leave his body. James finishes playing and grins. “When did you learn those?” asks Harry, genuinely curious: Warbeck really isn't part of the normal repertoire for James.
“This morning,” says James. Harry raises his eyebrows, impressed. “This,” says James, lifting his guitar a fraction, “is not just a prop, you know.”
“Why Warbeck?”
“I know you like this awful stuff, and I wanted to make you smile,” says James, with breathtaking simplicity. Harry almost goes to hug him, but then he remembers and stops. But he is smiling, wide and warmly, touched by his son's rare gesture. “Things seem a little... tense, here, so I thought you needed cheering up.” Harry knows what James means, but his smile falters a little. He didn't think it was so obvious, but there is some small knot of worry pulling at him and Draco this week, and he is not sure what it is. He surprised that James, wrapped up as he is in his own concerns, has noticed.
“Everything's fine, James,” he says, as calmly as he can. Harry sees James hesitate for a second before he speaks.
“I... you know I'm happy for you and Draco, and Mum and Blaise, don't you?” he asks. “I mean, it's not exactly what I thought my family would be, but it's ok. But....” He pauses again, and looks down. Again, all this talking is rare, but it is a bit of a special day.
“James?”
“Are you ok with all this?” asks James, tentatively, looking back up again. “Not you and Draco, but Mum and Blaise?”
“Yes, yes I am,” says Harry, trying to let James hear just how much he means every word. “Ginny is so happy now, and that– that makes me happy.” James looks relieved, and doesn't seem to have any further questions, and they chat about school for a few minutes more before Harry excuses himself and heads back downstairs.
He leaves feeling proud of his son, and not just for the music.
When Harry gets back to Al and Scorpius, there is a note taped to the door. Al hasn't left him a note for ages, and Harry again feels the sentimental side of him awake as he reads it. Dad -The impatient man gathers no corn, but at least the bread doesn't get burned. He knocks and opens the door, and finds both boys sitting on the floor, still playing Exploding Snap, except that both are dressed, absolutely perfectly, in their wedding suits and robes. They even have their shoes on. They look up at him and grin, and he backs out of the door laughing.
Feeling considerably lighter than he did before, Harry heads back into the kitchen. Lily is still sitting at the table, reading from one of Draco's books. Draco though, is nowhere to be seen.
“Lily, do you know where Draco is?” asks Harry, and she looks up then nods towards the garden door. Harry smiles in gratitude then heads out to find Draco.
The garden is filled with ferns and wide-leafed plants which Neville assured him would grow well in the mostly shady space, and indeed they do. The thin ray of sunlight is now nearly at the kitchen door. Hidden at the back is Draco, and he turns as he hears Harry approach. One look at his face and Harry freezes: he has forgotten about the bench until now.
“Um, sorry, Draco. I meant to move it back. It just catches the morning light better there, or it did....”
“It doesn't matter,” mutters Draco, but clearly it does. Harry's sense of ease evaporates a little. Draco moves the bench back, and one corner hits the back wall. Quickly, Harry pushes on the other side so that it makes a corresponding thud as it returns into place, and Draco relaxes a fraction; Harry takes his hand and pulls him towards the bench. After a moment when Draco seems reluctant to follow Harry, he relents and tightens his fingers in Harry's instead of pulling away. Harry squeezes back, grateful for the sign that he is forgiven, at least a little bit.
They sit together, like he did with Lily earlier, except now it is much quieter. Harry is reassured slightly by the fact that he can feel Draco, warm and solid, at his side. From beneath the edge of a broad leaf, Harry can just see a slug, and he wonders if it is the same one that he saw before. The slug moves, until all of its body has cleared the leaf. Its feelers – tentacles, actually, if Harry remembers the word right – quiver in the slight breeze, and Harry is surprised when it is Draco who talks first.
“Slugs are a bit like fish,” he says, and Harry blinks at just how random this remark is.
“Fish? How?” he asks.
“Well, there is no one family of fish, it's just how most sea creatures have evolved, the gills and the scales and the fins - many of them aren't related at all. Slugs are just the best way a gastropod with no shell can be.” Harry is silent. Draco has obviously been reading again. Either that or watching some nature programme on their newly-adapted wizarding telly. “They're perfect for skulking around damp, dark gardens. I read that the other day,” he adds brightly, and Harry feels a rush of warmth that it is Draco, not him, who is describing slugs as perfect.
“Yes, I've always thought that slugs were misunderstood,” Harry says. “No one seems to mind snails in quite the same way, do they? Well, apart from gardeners of course.” He realises that he might be on the verge of babbling, and stops, uncertain of what exactly it is he really wants to say. He is nervous, as Draco has been so quiet this week, and there is a large element of relief in the fact that they are talking to each other.
“It's the shells, isn't it?” says Draco. “I think slugs can be quite beautiful, but I'm not sure that I'd want to touch one.” He leans back, stretching his legs in front of him as his hands move to illustrate his point. “Whereas a snail, peeking in and out of its little house... it's easy to like them.” Harry isn't quite sure what they are doing, sitting on a bench in the garden talking about slugs and snails when there is obviously something else they need to be discussing, but it feels good to sit back and enjoy Draco's company. It is also the most relaxed he has seen him for a few days, so he decides to just roll with it.
“What people don't seem to realise,” Harry says, “is that snails are just slugs with hats on.”
“Hats?”
“Oh yes. For example, Philip down here could put on a top hat right now, and he would be most snail-worthy. And ready for the wedding.” Draco shakes his head and tuts, and Harry fears he's gone too far.
“No, that's not Philip. Look at those stripes! It's clearly Sally,” says Draco, leaning forward to point at the array of vertical lines running along the back half of the slug. Harry smiles: Draco never ceases to surprise him.
“Sally the slug?”
“Yes! If we wait a while, Sam will probably appear too.”
“Wait, you have already named the slugs?” asks Harry, a little miffed that he has missed out on this. Draco shrugs.
“You're not the only one who comes out here,” he says. They watch Sally as she makes her way towards the pot nestled next to the bench. “Sally and Sam, that's true love, you know. Where ever one goes, the other is soon to follow,” Draco says, and sure enough, there is another slug now by their feet.
“Draco I—”
“Harry—” They both speak at once. There is silence again, and Harry looks up at Draco, and holds his eye until Draco sighs.
“Harry, I– are you ok with this wedding today?” he says, so quietly that Harry holds his breath to hear what his is saying. “I mean, you and Ginny were married for years, you've got three children together, and....”
“Oh, is that what you've been worrying about?” asks Harry, breathing again, although his chest tightens despite the relief he feels that there is an explanation for Draco's recent moodiness. Draco nods, and Harry reaches out and squeezes his knee, leaving his hand to rest on his leg. “Yes, we were married a long time, but I'm ok. We... we didn't make each other happy, not the way you make me happy, or Blaise makes her happy.” Harry lets out a shaky laugh. “James asked me the same question, you know.”
“Really?” asks Draco, raising an eyebrow. “You've just had this look about you the past few days. I don't know, dreamy? Nostalgic? He must have noticed too.”
“Today, I've been thinking about things changing, that's true, but it's not the wedding I've been thinking about,” Harry pauses, trying to order his thoughts. “All the children are at Hogwarts now, I think it's that more than anything else. But... maybe there is something about Ginny getting married. It feels like... like... the last piece slotting into place. I wish—” Harry turns to find grey eyes fixed on him. “Sometimes I wish that we'd all found each other sooner. It's just so... right, with you.”
Draco's mouth is a silent 'o', and then he is grasping Harry's face and kissing him. It is all heat and passion and Harry can feel the tension leave Draco's body. He pulls back.
“You idiot,” whispers Harry. “How could I ever have any regrets about being with you?” He traces the edges of Draco's face, and his heart aches with his love for this man. This time he's the one to initiate the kiss, but it is a soft press to the corner of Draco's mouth, followed by a murmured “I love you.” Warmth and the scent of lemon surrounds Harry as Draco wraps his arms around him. “Besides,” Harry says into the heat of Draco's neck, “you know full well that it's slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails that do it for me, not sugar and spice. Draco laughs and Harry just knows that he is rolling his eyes. Draco's arms remain firmly around him though, and they sit together like this for a few minutes more.
Finally Draco mumbles into Harry's hair, and Harry pulls back to better hear what he has to say.
“We do have a good life, don't we?” says Draco, and Harry squeezes him.
“We're like Sam and Sally,” he says. They look down, but all that is left to show the slugs have been there are two silver trails, leading off behind a pot. “I think they've got the right idea,” Harry says, and waggles his eyebrows. Draco laughs and shoves him, but there is a light of desire behind his eyes and in the curve of his lip, and a pleasant tingle of anticipation travels through Harry, at the thought of later, when they are back, the night is quiet, and everyone else is asleep.
“Come on, we've got a wedding to get to,” he says. They help each other up, and walk across the paved courtyard, hand in hand, ready to herd children, collect a rather large and colourful glass vase, and celebrate true love.
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~4000
Summary: It isn't every day your ex-wife gets married. A gentle tale of love and gastropoda.
A/N: I wrote this as a wedding present for
saras_girl (originally posted here in the wedding_eels community). Sara's Girl gave special permission for well-wishers to use any of her characters/worlds, so I wrote this evilgiraff for the speedy beta - any remaining mistakes are my own.Slugs and Snails
The slug moves, slightly, as Harry pulls the bench forwards. It glistens in the morning light, and Harry looks at it for at least a minute before he blinks and steps back. The slug is unconcerned and continues on its journey at its own, surprisingly fast, pace. Harry knows that Draco would roll his eyes if he were here, but he isn't, and Harry rather likes the shiny persistence of slugs. He watches as it disappears under wide leaves.
Now he has moved the bench, Harry can sit in the warmth of the September morning. Again, he knows that Draco won't like that he has moved the bench, but it was worth it to feel the sunshine on his face. It isn't every day that your ex-wife remarries and he needs a moment to let go, even though it has been nearly two years since they decided to split up. His moment of calm is broken by the excited call of his youngest child, as she comes hurtling out of the kitchen door, all legs and arms and her mother's smile.
“Dad!” she shouts, as she comes to messy halt in front of him. She is a little breathless from rushing, and Harry suspects she has come flying down the stairs all the way from her room. He hides an amused smile, and pats the bench beside him. Lily has been a whirlwind of non-stop chatter since she got home. In all fairness, she has had to endure two brothers – and Scorpius – talking about Hogwarts for years now, and she is only three weeks into her first year there.
“Come and tell your old dad about whatever has got you so excited.” He looks sideways at her, and feels a tug of his heart at the strands of long hair which are escaping onto her face: he feels twelve again, and he remembers Ginny's wide eyes and courage. Lily looks beautiful in that unconscious way that only a child can do, already bedecked in a sky blue dress, ready for her mother's wedding.
“Well, Dad, Draco and Scorpius just got home, and I heard Al and Scorpius talking and they said that there's going to be a Holyhead Harpies flyover at the wedding but I said that was ridiculous, so I told them that Mum said it wasn't the sky it was the ground to look out for because Blaise and uncle Neville have got some surprise but she wouldn't tell me what it was—” Lily stops and gulps for air, and Harry decides to interrupt before she can continue. He would feel guilty about cutting her off like this, but experience has taught him that otherwise she is likely to go on for quite some time.
“I think that we should just see what happens,” he says, “and just be happy for Mum and Blaise.”
“I suppose,” she says, then cocks her head to one side and looks up at him. He recognises the gesture: it is the one she makes outside shop windows, the one which is swiftly followed by a purchase and less money in his pocket. “Dad, do you know what the surprise is?”
He laughs, and reaches out to hug her to him. She is the only one now to accept hugs without embarrassment, and he takes them when he can. She smells of apples, and he kisses her on the head. “No I do not, and even if I did, if I told you it wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it?” She sniffs, but moves closer to him.
The pressure of his arm around Lily is enough to wake Misu, who is curled around his wrist. Her head pokes out from the edge of his sleeve, her tongue flicking in the air as she gets to grip with her surroundings.
“The young one is quiet,” she says with approval. Misu has enjoyed the past few weeks with all the children at school, and was a little nonplussed when they all appeared last night.
“Misu's always so beautiful,” sighs Lily. “I've missed you, little snake. Can I hold her, please?”
“My little one would like to hold you,” asks Harry. “May she?” Misu curls over and around his fingers while she decides how to answer. “She says that you are beautiful,” he adds, knowing that this will make a difference. Misu's head rises up, and she hisses in pleasure before making her way to Lily's waiting arm.
While Lily murmurs questions and comments to a surprisingly patient Misu, Harry looks around his little garden with pride. Garden is perhaps too grand a word for it – really it is more of a small and shady courtyard – but it is somewhere to open the back door onto. It always reminds him of his life with Draco: everything is laid out in ordered, symmetrical lines, every plant pot and object balanced by another, if not mirrored exactly, yet the plants grow as they will. His favourite is the small Japanese Maple in a large green pot; the leaves are just now beginning their turn from green to yellow and red, and he loves the brilliance of the colours as the sun shines through them.
He knows that he has been sitting out here for what is probably too long, and casts a quick Tempus just to check. With a sigh Harry retrieves Misu, who wraps herself back around his wrist while muttering something about food, and he pulls Lily up, smiling as she begins a story about her new friends and how much fun Potions is.
“I was wondering where you were,” is his only greeting from Draco, who is sitting in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea, but Harry knows that he has been tense all week, and ignores it. He also notices that there is a second cup on the side, with a warming charm over it, and smiles, glad that he has not made it into Draco's bad books today – well, not yet, anyway. As soon as Misu is safely in her tank and eating while mumbling to herself about “delicious” and “too much talking”, Harry reaches for the cup. The tea is hot, and he blows on it while trying to work out exactly what he needs to do next. He knows that he has two teenage boys to prod into getting ready – three including Scorpius – and they only have another two hours.
“How is Scorpius?” he asks, continuing his thoughts aloud, and Draco looks up from the crossword puzzle which has been holding his attention.
“Fine. He seems to have recovered from missing his Hogsmeade visit, and is currently upstairs planning some kind of mischief with your son.” Harry takes a breath to ask which one of his sons, even though he knows Draco means Al, because it will make him do that little exasperated sigh he saves for when Harry asks the obvious; but Draco gets there first. “The younger one, Harry,” he says, with his put-upon sigh, and Harry smiles to himself, perfectly aware of just how much they both love these exchanges. And then he sighs himself, as Draco's words sink in: Al and Scorpius are upstairs, together. It turns out that having the two boys under one roof is interesting, to say the least; George, it seems, has found a couple of protégés. “And yes, I did check him for wheezes as soon as we arrived,” Draco adds, his thoughts obviously travelling in a similar direction.
As if on cue, there is a crash and raucous laughter from upstairs. Harry's eyes flick up to the ceiling, but of course it tells him nothing. Looking back at Draco, he sees the tightness in his shoulders, and resolves to find time for a proper chat. They too have got used to a quiet house, although they have missed their children, and it is good to have everyone home. There seem to be three 'settings' for their home: quiet, slightly less quiet when Scorpius is around, and then off-the scale, Potter rambunctiousness when all his brood are present. Harry would feel bad for shaking Draco's life up like this, but the overwhelming warmth he feels when his children are with him balances everything out. In his mind, at least, Harry shakes his head: he can't help but think in terms of balance now.
“I'll go make sure they're....” he trails off. Draco gives him an absent-minded nod and turns back to the paper.
Lily has settled in at the other end of the table, with her Potions homework. She has already explained how she plans to get it finished before they leave, so that she can enjoy the rest of her weekend, Harry is surprised that she likes the subject so much, but discerns the influence of both Draco and Rose, who has taken her cousin under her wing since Lily sorted into Ravenclaw a few weeks ago. He smiles at the memory of Lily's disappointment that she didn't sort into Hufflepuff: the world certainly is changing. An unexpected question about Maura catches his breath for a moment: which house will she sort into? He shakes off the thought as he leaves the kitchen, with a little sigh of sadness. Besides, there are enough children in the house to occupy him, without getting distracted by the girl who doesn't exist here.
Upstairs things are surprisingly calm. Neither Al nor Scorpius are ready yet, of course, but they are both clean, even if the room is strewn with Chocolate Frog wrappers and odd socks, and their clothes for the wedding are laid out on their beds. The two boys are sitting on the floor playing Exploding Snap, and the sight brings back memories of the Gryffindor common room. A pile of books has been knocked over, obviously during a particularly exciting round of their game, which explains the crash Harry heard from downstairs.
“I want to see you dressed within the next hour,” he says, and they look up at him with twin expressions of exasperation.
“Dad, honestly, we're not babies,” says Al, and Scorpius nods vigourously.
“We'll be ready on time,” says Scorpius, who always sounds more conciliatory, but who is just as likely as Al to get distracted and forget something important. Or get into trouble.
“Oh yeah, Dad, we've got it all sorted,” says Al with a confident yet vague air of reassurance, and a wave of the hand in the direction of their clothes. Harry knows he should push them to hurry up – Draco would be fairly thrumming with nerves by now – but he doesn't have the heart to quash their earnestness, so leaves them with a reminder which sounds suspiciously like a list of everything they need to be wearing, and a weary request for them to tidy their room instead. In all honesty, he knows that it won't be tidy until they go back to Hogwarts tomorrow evening.
Making his way up the next flight of stairs, Harry resolves to pop back on his way down, just to see how they're doing; he won't believe that they're ready until, well, they're ready.
James is where he always is when he's home: in his room, practicing his guitar. It is clear from the way he is standing in front of the mirror that a large part of the appeal in playing is still how it makes him look. This son won't need any reminders about getting ready: he is concerned enough about his appearance to be relied upon to be perfectly turned out when it's time to leave.
Harry listens for a minute, and takes a deep breath; he honestly doesn't know how Muggle parents cope without silencing charms. A strange current of pride runs through him at the sight of his son, posing and making music all at once. Not for the first time, he is reminded of his own father, while at the same time feeling the all-too-familiar prickle of nostalgia at how quickly his children are growing up. He can't quite believe that James is a fourth-year already.
His moods are... interesting at the moment, but seeing him so enthralled by something is heartening.
“Hi, James,” he says, and James jumps back with embarrassment at being caught, before quickly reestablishing his balance and his oh-so-important cool.
“Dad,” says James, with a little Elvis-style nod of his head. “Do you want to hear me play?” he asks, his air of nonchalance ruined somewhat by the tremble of vulnerability in his voice.
“Oh course,” says Harry, and he sits on the edge of the bed, to give James his full attention. James fiddles with various knobs for a moment, then begins to play. Harry doesn't quite believe his ears for a moment, but James is playing a medley of Celestina Warbeck songs. Harry laughs, deep and loud from his belly, and feels some of the tension that has been building all morning leave his body. James finishes playing and grins. “When did you learn those?” asks Harry, genuinely curious: Warbeck really isn't part of the normal repertoire for James.
“This morning,” says James. Harry raises his eyebrows, impressed. “This,” says James, lifting his guitar a fraction, “is not just a prop, you know.”
“Why Warbeck?”
“I know you like this awful stuff, and I wanted to make you smile,” says James, with breathtaking simplicity. Harry almost goes to hug him, but then he remembers and stops. But he is smiling, wide and warmly, touched by his son's rare gesture. “Things seem a little... tense, here, so I thought you needed cheering up.” Harry knows what James means, but his smile falters a little. He didn't think it was so obvious, but there is some small knot of worry pulling at him and Draco this week, and he is not sure what it is. He surprised that James, wrapped up as he is in his own concerns, has noticed.
“Everything's fine, James,” he says, as calmly as he can. Harry sees James hesitate for a second before he speaks.
“I... you know I'm happy for you and Draco, and Mum and Blaise, don't you?” he asks. “I mean, it's not exactly what I thought my family would be, but it's ok. But....” He pauses again, and looks down. Again, all this talking is rare, but it is a bit of a special day.
“James?”
“Are you ok with all this?” asks James, tentatively, looking back up again. “Not you and Draco, but Mum and Blaise?”
“Yes, yes I am,” says Harry, trying to let James hear just how much he means every word. “Ginny is so happy now, and that– that makes me happy.” James looks relieved, and doesn't seem to have any further questions, and they chat about school for a few minutes more before Harry excuses himself and heads back downstairs.
He leaves feeling proud of his son, and not just for the music.
When Harry gets back to Al and Scorpius, there is a note taped to the door. Al hasn't left him a note for ages, and Harry again feels the sentimental side of him awake as he reads it. Dad -The impatient man gathers no corn, but at least the bread doesn't get burned. He knocks and opens the door, and finds both boys sitting on the floor, still playing Exploding Snap, except that both are dressed, absolutely perfectly, in their wedding suits and robes. They even have their shoes on. They look up at him and grin, and he backs out of the door laughing.
Feeling considerably lighter than he did before, Harry heads back into the kitchen. Lily is still sitting at the table, reading from one of Draco's books. Draco though, is nowhere to be seen.
“Lily, do you know where Draco is?” asks Harry, and she looks up then nods towards the garden door. Harry smiles in gratitude then heads out to find Draco.
The garden is filled with ferns and wide-leafed plants which Neville assured him would grow well in the mostly shady space, and indeed they do. The thin ray of sunlight is now nearly at the kitchen door. Hidden at the back is Draco, and he turns as he hears Harry approach. One look at his face and Harry freezes: he has forgotten about the bench until now.
“Um, sorry, Draco. I meant to move it back. It just catches the morning light better there, or it did....”
“It doesn't matter,” mutters Draco, but clearly it does. Harry's sense of ease evaporates a little. Draco moves the bench back, and one corner hits the back wall. Quickly, Harry pushes on the other side so that it makes a corresponding thud as it returns into place, and Draco relaxes a fraction; Harry takes his hand and pulls him towards the bench. After a moment when Draco seems reluctant to follow Harry, he relents and tightens his fingers in Harry's instead of pulling away. Harry squeezes back, grateful for the sign that he is forgiven, at least a little bit.
They sit together, like he did with Lily earlier, except now it is much quieter. Harry is reassured slightly by the fact that he can feel Draco, warm and solid, at his side. From beneath the edge of a broad leaf, Harry can just see a slug, and he wonders if it is the same one that he saw before. The slug moves, until all of its body has cleared the leaf. Its feelers – tentacles, actually, if Harry remembers the word right – quiver in the slight breeze, and Harry is surprised when it is Draco who talks first.
“Slugs are a bit like fish,” he says, and Harry blinks at just how random this remark is.
“Fish? How?” he asks.
“Well, there is no one family of fish, it's just how most sea creatures have evolved, the gills and the scales and the fins - many of them aren't related at all. Slugs are just the best way a gastropod with no shell can be.” Harry is silent. Draco has obviously been reading again. Either that or watching some nature programme on their newly-adapted wizarding telly. “They're perfect for skulking around damp, dark gardens. I read that the other day,” he adds brightly, and Harry feels a rush of warmth that it is Draco, not him, who is describing slugs as perfect.
“Yes, I've always thought that slugs were misunderstood,” Harry says. “No one seems to mind snails in quite the same way, do they? Well, apart from gardeners of course.” He realises that he might be on the verge of babbling, and stops, uncertain of what exactly it is he really wants to say. He is nervous, as Draco has been so quiet this week, and there is a large element of relief in the fact that they are talking to each other.
“It's the shells, isn't it?” says Draco. “I think slugs can be quite beautiful, but I'm not sure that I'd want to touch one.” He leans back, stretching his legs in front of him as his hands move to illustrate his point. “Whereas a snail, peeking in and out of its little house... it's easy to like them.” Harry isn't quite sure what they are doing, sitting on a bench in the garden talking about slugs and snails when there is obviously something else they need to be discussing, but it feels good to sit back and enjoy Draco's company. It is also the most relaxed he has seen him for a few days, so he decides to just roll with it.
“What people don't seem to realise,” Harry says, “is that snails are just slugs with hats on.”
“Hats?”
“Oh yes. For example, Philip down here could put on a top hat right now, and he would be most snail-worthy. And ready for the wedding.” Draco shakes his head and tuts, and Harry fears he's gone too far.
“No, that's not Philip. Look at those stripes! It's clearly Sally,” says Draco, leaning forward to point at the array of vertical lines running along the back half of the slug. Harry smiles: Draco never ceases to surprise him.
“Sally the slug?”
“Yes! If we wait a while, Sam will probably appear too.”
“Wait, you have already named the slugs?” asks Harry, a little miffed that he has missed out on this. Draco shrugs.
“You're not the only one who comes out here,” he says. They watch Sally as she makes her way towards the pot nestled next to the bench. “Sally and Sam, that's true love, you know. Where ever one goes, the other is soon to follow,” Draco says, and sure enough, there is another slug now by their feet.
“Draco I—”
“Harry—” They both speak at once. There is silence again, and Harry looks up at Draco, and holds his eye until Draco sighs.
“Harry, I– are you ok with this wedding today?” he says, so quietly that Harry holds his breath to hear what his is saying. “I mean, you and Ginny were married for years, you've got three children together, and....”
“Oh, is that what you've been worrying about?” asks Harry, breathing again, although his chest tightens despite the relief he feels that there is an explanation for Draco's recent moodiness. Draco nods, and Harry reaches out and squeezes his knee, leaving his hand to rest on his leg. “Yes, we were married a long time, but I'm ok. We... we didn't make each other happy, not the way you make me happy, or Blaise makes her happy.” Harry lets out a shaky laugh. “James asked me the same question, you know.”
“Really?” asks Draco, raising an eyebrow. “You've just had this look about you the past few days. I don't know, dreamy? Nostalgic? He must have noticed too.”
“Today, I've been thinking about things changing, that's true, but it's not the wedding I've been thinking about,” Harry pauses, trying to order his thoughts. “All the children are at Hogwarts now, I think it's that more than anything else. But... maybe there is something about Ginny getting married. It feels like... like... the last piece slotting into place. I wish—” Harry turns to find grey eyes fixed on him. “Sometimes I wish that we'd all found each other sooner. It's just so... right, with you.”
Draco's mouth is a silent 'o', and then he is grasping Harry's face and kissing him. It is all heat and passion and Harry can feel the tension leave Draco's body. He pulls back.
“You idiot,” whispers Harry. “How could I ever have any regrets about being with you?” He traces the edges of Draco's face, and his heart aches with his love for this man. This time he's the one to initiate the kiss, but it is a soft press to the corner of Draco's mouth, followed by a murmured “I love you.” Warmth and the scent of lemon surrounds Harry as Draco wraps his arms around him. “Besides,” Harry says into the heat of Draco's neck, “you know full well that it's slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails that do it for me, not sugar and spice. Draco laughs and Harry just knows that he is rolling his eyes. Draco's arms remain firmly around him though, and they sit together like this for a few minutes more.
Finally Draco mumbles into Harry's hair, and Harry pulls back to better hear what he has to say.
“We do have a good life, don't we?” says Draco, and Harry squeezes him.
“We're like Sam and Sally,” he says. They look down, but all that is left to show the slugs have been there are two silver trails, leading off behind a pot. “I think they've got the right idea,” Harry says, and waggles his eyebrows. Draco laughs and shoves him, but there is a light of desire behind his eyes and in the curve of his lip, and a pleasant tingle of anticipation travels through Harry, at the thought of later, when they are back, the night is quiet, and everyone else is asleep.
“Come on, we've got a wedding to get to,” he says. They help each other up, and walk across the paved courtyard, hand in hand, ready to herd children, collect a rather large and colourful glass vase, and celebrate true love.
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Date: 2012-10-20 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-20 02:14 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it. :)