Future Parents Program

When they said war was hell, they weren't bloody well joking.

All it had taken was one Death Eater meeting to convince Draco Black Malfoy of the truth of that little gem. He'd stood there in black robes and the mask that identified the brethren for who they were, his fourteen year old body almost shaking in barely suppressed excitement for being honored with this chance even without receiving the dark mark yet. He'd been so eager, so confident, so BLOODY STUPID.

Malfoy couldn't really have described what he'd pictured death to look like. All those times he'd wished Gryffindor Granger dead, he had supposed somewhere in the back of his mind that she simply would have disappeared from his life. Something like going away for an extended holiday, only her body remained behind until there was nothing left. Malfoy had never gotten around to imagining HOW death was caused.

He was in for a crash course.

A Muggle couple had been killed that night. They had been dragged out of the forest's shadows, utterly bewildered at the sight of cloaked figures standing in the stone circle. They hadn't been very much older than Malfoy himself. He remembered being frozen behind the mask as he watched what amounted to a gang rape in which the man and the woman were quickly hoarse from screaming. It was all so surreal and yet so disgustingly factual Malfoy couldn't cope with his feelings. He wanted to run away, he wanted to scream at the Death Eaters, including the man who'd fathered him, to stop. His lips moved silently but no words could pass the frozen muscles of his throat. His mind screamed at him to do something, anything!

But what? He was the son of a Death Eater. He wasn't supposed to want to do anything, say anything, be so horrified.

Only he was.

The Muggle couple was killed rather quickly--Voldemort's followers were abruptly warned of a pending strike against them by a group of Aurors. They dispersed with great speed, leaving the bodies twisted and broken in death, and Malfoy found himself back at the manor and wrestling with nightmares.

He was so confused. His upbringing warred with his newly discovered revulsion at what the family teachings allowed. It got to the point where he couldn't sleep or really eat. Something had to be done.

So he did what any self respecting Slytherin would do- he accessed his opponent.

By the time he was through, a whole new world had opened up to Malfoy. The whole Deatheater system was flawed. Why in the hell was he supposed to kill Mud- MUGGLE BORN wizards if Voldemort himself was fathered by a Muggle? If they were truly inferior, then their exalted leader should be destroyed for being a halfbreed.

Bloody hell. Now he was going to have to erase his preconceived notions and start from scratch. Damnit.

Finding all of this out still didn't help Malfoy with finding a solution to the predicament presented to him. He had to talk to someone, bounce some ideas off of him. Someone older, with experience. Someone who could keep a secret. Someone with enough intelligence to come up with a plausible resolution that didn't involve Draco Malfoy getting himself killed. Someone who---

Aw, bugger.

******

It was an understatement to say that Malfoy was unhappy about turning to Dumbledore for help, but he did it anyway. He was prideful, not moronic. He knew that the Headmaster was the only one who fit the bill.

So Draco became a double agent, feeding his father false information and keeping Dumbledore on the ball. The old man kept him abreast of the people saved in the attacks, as if he knew that Malfoy secretly needed to hear that he was helping someone, that he needed to know that he hadn't let anyone else die like the Muggle couple. Logically he knew it wasn't his fault, but he used it for motivation nonetheless.

To make a long story short, Voldemort was defeated sometime between Malfoy's sixth and seventh year. By then the Golden Trio had learned of Malfoy's involvement with the so-called good side. Not that it mattered. Weasel was a pure born to begin with--Malfoy hated him because of his incessant stupidity, poverty, and damned redheaded Weasley disregard for social grace. He was the first one to make a scene. He didn't even have the refinement to insult someone subtly, for Merlin's sake. Didn't he understand the concept--

Potter had softened a bit in his hatred of Malfoy, but old rivalries died hard. They each wanted to be better, faster, stronger. Malfoy had the intelligence and good looks awards hands down, but blast it if that little git didn't trounce him continuously on the Quidditch field. The toerag was at the second to the top slot of Malfoy's People I Am Going to Beat If It's the Last Thing I Ever Do list.

But as insufferable as Potter was, he didn't rate Enemy Number One in Malfoy's eyes any longer. Oh no, that dubious honor went to someone else. Someone who didn't know when to sit back and shut up. Someone who's marks practically squeaked next to his because they were so close. Someone who had apparently never seen a hairbrush before the Yule Ball and from the looks of it had managed to lose it again immediately following.

Someone who just damn well wouldn't get out of his sight and stay that way so he wouldn't have to spend all his time planning his next heckle just to annoy her.

Malfoy could never contain the growl that emitted every time he thought about her. He couldn't keep his composure, period, when it came to her. No matter how hard he tried, Draco couldn't just walk away from her and ignore her. Instead of the icy calm he should have been effecting, he reverted to some kind of school yard bully with a crush on the class beauty. Rude, childish, and unbelievably obvious.

The problem was that the comparison hit a little too close to home for Draco.

Not that he had a blinkin' crush on the girl. It was just that he was pretty sure that other people thought that he did. Hell, maybe even the gods did, because they certainly threw the Gryffindor Princess in his path often enough. She was everywhere he looked. In the Great Hall, in class, at the Quidditch pitch watching the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Piss-the-Everloving-Hell-Out-Of-Malfoy and the Waste-of-Talent-Weasley practice.

It got to the point where Malfoy spent the summer before seventh year praying that he wouldn't get the position of Head Boy. Odd? Hell no. Self-preservation. He was dreaming about her now. He noticed the most inappropriate things about her as--Ack!

Anyway, he knew that if he got Head Boy, he would have to share a common room with the Girl-Who-Wouldn't-Leave-Him-Alone and frankly he wasn't sure if he would survive.

And what happened? Dumbledore did it to him again. He was named Head Boy.

The man lived to make Malfoy miserable. He just knew it.

He was positive Dumbledore was counting on the Malfoy pride to prevent Draco from turning the position down, and he was right. Draco glared at the letter in his hand. Wasn't he supposed to be getting rewarded for helping in the fall of Voldemort? This smelled like punishment to him, and he ought to know. He had Lucius for a father.

He looked up at his mother. She was idly paging through this morning's edition of the Daily Prophet, delicately sipping her pumpkin juice. Since his father's imprisonment, Narcissa had opened up to him. She laughed, she cried, she tried to make up for all the years that her husband had taken away from her. Malfoy had quickly realized that it was nice having someone who cared. He'd gone so far as to test the waters by bringing her a rose for no special reason. She'd rewarded him with one of the few hugs he'd ever received in his life.

It had been awkward and strangely wonderful at the same time.

"Something wrong, dear?" she asked him, sipping her pumpkin juice.

He carefully placed the letter on the table next to his plate. "I've been named Head Boy." He tried not to spit the words when he said it.

"Really?" she asked excitedly. Years disappeared from her face as she literally clapped her hands in delight. Malfoy arched his eyebrow, but decided to refrain from commenting. "How wonderful!" She sat back. "I can't believe it. My baby is in his seventh year, Head Boy, and Quidditch captain." She sniffed.

Oh, gods, was that a tear? Malfoy thought with horror.

His mother sniffed again. "My little boy is growing up."

Oh, no, oh no oh no oh no. Her eyes were shiny. Malfoy gulped. "Mother, don't cry please," he begged as much for his sake as hers. He was rubbish with teary women. But this was is mother, and if anything, there new relationship demanded some sort of action on his part. He reached out and awkwardly patted her hand. "It's ok," he croaked.

She waved a hand to fan her eyes. "I will not cry, I will not cry."

Then she promptly let the flood gates down.

Malfoy would never understand how women could emit so much water and still survive, but she somehow pulled it off. The next thing he knew he stood next to her chair, arms wrapped around her as she sobbed, with his eyes raised to implore the gods for some kind of divine intervention. Inspiration, the right words, a drought, for the love of Salazar!

When she finally calmed, Malfoy nearly dropped in relief. Until she suddenly pushed him away and looked up at him with unholy determination and stated in a clear voice, "I want grandchildren."

Malfoy was ashamed to say he did drop then. He would later claim that he'd tripped, but the truth was that the shock was too much for his knees and he landed in an undignified heap on the dining room floor. "You want WHAT?!" he bellowed up at her.

Madame Malfoy had no sympathy for his poor bum. "I want grandchildren and I want them soon."

"Aren't you being a little irrational?" That was an understatement. His mother wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and proceeded to deliver the most convoluted explanation known to man. "I didn't have the time with you that I should have. It's almost too late to show you that I can be a good mother to you, to show you how wonderful a real family can be. If you get married, I'll get a daughter, you'll get a wife who will hopefully give you all the love you deserve, and then we'll all get children to love and cherish and play with and-"

Malfoy scrambled to his feet. He pushed his hair out of his face and tried to remain calm. "Mother, what did the house elves put in your drink?" There, that was reasonable enough.

"I am not drunk, Draco Black Malfoy!" she told him with enough Malfoy disdain to freeze a lake. "I am perfectly sober. Besides, you are now the head of the Malfoy family. It's time to ensure the future."

Malfoy had the uncomfortable feeling that he was going to faint.