The Monster

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Part Two

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The breeze dragged the scent of my neighbor's balcony garden into the bedroom. I was reading, propped against the headboard, and wondering which direction I should turn in to catch another noseful of peony. The outdoor scent reminded me of Hogwarts: the grass, the sky, and the high-reaching treetops. It made me want to play Quidditch, though I knew there were no facilities to support amateur adult games in the area. Maybe I would go watch the local children's league next week. Yes. And I'd take Malfoy with me.

I was thinking a lot about him this morning, about Ron and Hermione, too. But most of all, I thought about Dumbledore. I had decided to thank him in person for helping my friends bring me out of that terrible dementor state. I knew it was result of his words that had brought me there in the first place, but I was beginning to realize he'd meant no harm; he'd dropped everything to hurry to my flat and cure me, after all.

When Malfoy came into the room with dragging feet, I put my book aside and sat up straight.

"I auditioned for another play," he said flatly. "I got the part of the self-important, shallow bloke again."

I patted the bed and he lay against me. He felt as cool and light as the breeze.

"Well," I said, and promptly forgot the rest of my sentence. During the weeks my mind had been absent, the familiarity of his body must have left me as well. It was such a novel experience, feeling his hand on my thigh. "I'll buy a ticket to your show no matter what part you have," I forced out.

"I should think so. Um. Potter, are you...?" He moved his hand farther up my thigh.

"I'm better."

"Yes, you look better. It's probably because you've got me here---I'm all anyone needs, you see."

"Right. Shut up, now."

Then we had sex for the second time in a month. He stared into my face throughout it all and I became extremely smug at the thought that he was delirious with passion, and as he was saying "Your eyes, your eyes" as though they were new and miraculous things---well, you can imagine I conveyed my thanks most excitedly.

"Did you get contacts?" he whispered when we were finished. We had shut the door and curtains; the room was dark. I always wonder what it is about the dark that makes you think you need to be quiet.

"No. You said I shouldn't."

"But...are you sure?"

"You would think I'd remember going to the optometrist."

Malfoy's hair hung into my eyes as he looked down at me. The arm that was not being used to prop him up rested atop my chest, fingers fooling with its unsatisfactory amount of hair.

"They're not pale anymore," he said. "They're the right green again."

"It was because of the dementor inside," I said, pulling him down to rest on me. "Hermione researched it. Dementors have no eyes. As a darkling, I would have had completely white ones."

He smiled and licked my chin for reasons unknown to me except that he was Malfoy and Malfoy did things like that. I stroked down the split of his arse, wondering when he would be ready for another go.

"So darklings are blind," he stated. "Who would have thought our Boy Who Lived was a Dark creature?"

"Certainly not me. But whilst it was happening I knew there was something wrong, only I didn't care to do anything about it."

"I'm glad you're all right. I wouldn't have been pleased if you'd have sucked out my soul."

"It doesn't work that way. I wasn't turning into an actual dementor---"

"What a know-it-all. Turn over."

I rolled onto my side. Malfoy stretched out behind me and his arms slithered around my midriff. He sprawled his fingers on my ribs and sunk his nose into my hair, and with his contented sigh I felt at home in my skin again.

"The Ministry will take away your Order of Merlin if they find out," he said.

"Probably not."

"They did it to me. I jumped, like the gallant knight I am, in front of the Cruciatus headed for Dumbledore, but when they found out I had the Dark Mark---no, we can't give him the Order of Merlin. He's evil!"

"They didn't arrest you."

"Yeah, well, I have Dumbledore to thank for that. Plus, I never did anything wrong."

"What's your point?"

"I didn't commit any crimes, but the Ministry still took away my pretty plaque---and quietly, so there would be no protest. And they'll do it to you because they hate Dark magic."

"I'm Harry Potter."

He laughed into my shoulder.

"I don't see what's so funny, Malfoy."

"You're arrogant."

"How so?"

"You say your name as though that's the solution to the problem. As though it justifies everything you've ever done wrong."

"I don't think that! But the Ministry surely does."

"Arrogant."

"I saved the world, all right? That's what they'll say."

"You helped save the world."

"What have you done to benefit mankind? And reciting "Les Mis" in its entirety in the middle of the street doesn't count."

"People were in love with my Cosette! Anyway, most of us don't have time to benefit mankind, while, on the other hand, you lay around all day and the Ministry pays you to do nothing."

"Recompense for my troubles, they call it. Besides, the Ministry does not---what I mean to say---I also write scientific an---"

"Scientific analyses of magic's effects on our psyche. Yes, I've heard all that rubbish before. I can't believe the media buys the shit. When is your next book coming out, anyway?"

"You haven't even read my last book."

"It makes too good a doorstopper."

"It's expected in a few months."

"Well, you'd better get a move on. Do you have any grapefruit? I just adore grapefruit."

Malfoy seemed to forget his question immediately, falling back onto the sheets at the other end of the bed. I turned over and gazed at his thin white lips and the single freckle above his left eyebrow, thinking about how valuable he would look on paper. It was out of the blue, yes. Don't know where the thought came from. Even so, my hand skimmed along his hip, naval, and ribs. Previously, I'd wanted to have sex again, but now I was fine just feeling the contours of his body.

*

Malfoy and I had been together on and off since just after our Hogwarts days. By "together" I mean occasional coffees and frequent bedroom appointments. Sometimes he found a steady partner with a steady bank account and I would go back to my current profession, while I waited for him to return to me. When the inevitable happened, we pretended there was never an interlude in our relationship and he resumed popping by my flat as often as he liked and pillaging my refrigerator. I never questioned that he always kept the key no matter how long we were separated.

I often turned up at his rehearsals because Malfoy liked to show me off and I liked the bright smiles he gave me when I indulged him; afterward, I would seize him away and make it so that neither of us was in any condition to venture farther than the rumpled sheets of my bed. This stopped when Malfoy was booted out of a production for the second time for lack of attendance.

Knowing the sporadic, frivolous nature between us, you can imagine how surprised I was when he came to me with something perfectly serious:

"I think I'm pregnant."

Now, if you're a Muggle you probably find that an outrageous notion. Men don't have the right parts for that sort of thing! Well, obviously. But Malfoy is not only a man but a wizard, and that means he has the perfect parts for that sort of thing. He has a body and, more importantly, he has magic.

But at the time that didn't occur to me. "Are you of your mind?"

"Not at the moment," said Malfoy, "but I'm certain I'm running out of stomach."

"That's absurd. You can't be."

"Don't be silly. I've never known a pregnant person to get thinner because of it."

"Malfoy---"

"I hope I don't get stretch marks."

He sounded so casual that the bewilderment was knocked straight out of me and was replaced by a feeling akin to hope. Surely if he wasn't worried then I had no reason to be.

"Well," I said, "get a second opinion."

"It's my stomach, Potter; mine's the only opinion I need."

"What, you didn't go to the hospital? So you did a...pregnancy checking spell, or whatever?"

"Yes," he said breezily, and slid onto the sofa with the air of someone relaxing in the tub. "Have you seen my nail file? Valentino thinks my character has an impeccable manicure, but I think he's out of his mind---why would someone who never leaves his house care what his nails look like? But Valentino's the boss, I guess."

While Malfoy rattled on, I was still comprehending the important issue. It wasn't logical; pregnancy didn't spring out of oblivion at wizards who hadn't made plans. My hair was now a mess from my wandering, nervous hands, and I stood like a very interesting statue with my hand on my head.

"Potter, you're not listening to me."

"Why don't you care about this?"

"I care about it deeply. The theater is my passion."

"The baby---I'm talking about the baby! Do you think you're pregnant?"

"I just said I did."

"Then" ---my hand fell off my head--- "what are you talking about nails for?"

He ignored me for a moment, checking under my sofa's cushions like I'd hidden supply of beauty products there. Then he looked to be considering an answer. "I haven't been taking any pills for pregnancy and that sort of thing, so I can only come to one conclusion about all this."

I realized after staring at his lifted eyebrows that he was baiting me. "What's that?" I asked.

"You've done this to me on purpose."

"Oh, that's logical."

"It is. But why have you been plotting against me, Potter?"

"I haven't done a thing to you. I want to know why you've brought this up. Maybe you're not pregnant at all."

"No worries, I am!" He leaned back in his seat with a tightly rolled magazine in his hand. "You're sure you haven't done this for any sneaky reason?"

"Yes."

"That's too bad."

"Why?" I asked, frustrated. I folded my arms over my chest and looked to the unlit fireplace. Perhaps someone would spring out of it to take me away---perhaps it would be the real Draco Malfoy to tell me this one was an imposter.

"Well, Harry, if you had done this on purpose I would have asked for compensation, which I'm sure you would have been honorable enough to provide. But since you're clearly kindhearted and wouldn't dream of sowing my virgin eggs---"

"Dear Lord," I said with revulsion, "please get to the point."

"Hmm. I was hoping you'd be a dear."

"What? What do you want from me?"

"It's not as though I have any change to spare. You have to pay for the abortion."

Our roundabout conversation faded as his words hit me. Abortion wasn't an option that had passed my mind. Actually, I had felt quite blank until a second before, and the mention of such a thing brought a sour taste to my mouth.

"Fine," I said, and went to brush my teeth.

*

The hospital had sitting area near the entrance filled to capacity with cushy seats, magazines, toys, and very round women. Its peaceful atmosphere made me uncomfortable, knowing what Malfoy and I were here to do. I waited next to an equally uncomfortable looking man while Malfoy spoke to the Welcome Witch. I couldn't look at him while he made arrangements with her as if they were dinner reservations.

St. Mungo's didn't take care of pregnancies, so we had to see a specialist at a place called Witches in Waiting. Apparently they had a department for wizards in waiting, though it had no formal name. As a nurse led us to a distant sector of the building, I clenched Malfoy's arm for my own comfort. He, on the other hand, was so relaxed I hoped he'd never done this before.

The mediwizard we were seeing suggested I wait in the corridor, and I eagerly complied. It was a silent ordeal until the mediwizard's assistant poked her head through the doorway.

"Mister Potter?"

"Y-yes?"

She smiled. "Mister Malfoy is fine. He'll be wheeled out shortly. If you'll just fill out this paperwork and bring it to the front desk."

Later on, Malfoy was dozing under a blanket on my sofa. He didn't believe in Muggle keys, choosing instead to keep a personalized spell, so I had no idea how put him back into his flat without awakening him or tossing him through the window. He looked exhausted enough that I ignored Ron's complaints about his snoring. I went to my room and wilted at the desk with my head in my hands.

*

Dumbledore was smiling at me as I closed his office door. He offered a plate of some rich-looking desserts, from which I took one item. I said I wasn't inclined to tea right now, thanks. I had a feeling by the way he beckoned me to talk that he knew precisely what I'd come for, or he had his own agenda that he wanted to get going, but I took my time with my pastry and he continued to smile.

At last I said, "I didn't think a letter would suffice, Professor."

"I do so love getting letters."

"Well, here I am just the same."

"And if you had sent a letter, what would it say?"

"I think---ah---it would just say 'thank you.' Maybe I've lost my knack for the written word...." I looked down at my pastry. "Maybe it was never a knack---just a whimsy."

"Why do you say that?"

"Since it began---the dementor incident---my words have been so empty. I can't even make up things that sound meaningful, like I did in my book."

Dumbledore seemed to be holding back laughter. "I'd say the knack is there, hidden within you, nonetheless. But you're welcome. I'm glad you're still with us."

"If I can ask, how did you cure me?"

"Ah, the magic of old men---not very interesting at all."

I took the hint and went on sampling his delicacies, which dwindled between us both, and ended up taking a quivering saucer of tea as well. If it mattered why a layer of comfort began to spread like icing on my insides I would tell you exactly that; but the important part is that this comfort was there, and it kept me seated for the next part of the story.

"How is Mister Weasley?" he inquired.

"He's the same---freckles and things."

"Yes. As I expected. And Mister Malfoy?"

"He's---"

The dribble of tea on my chin was an excuse to hide my reaction; I put a napkin over my face.

It hadn't occurred to me that Dumbledore knew about the nature of my relationship with Malfoy. Thinking of it as a "relationship" caused my most recent conflict with Malfoy to crash back into me. When we'd returned from the pregnancy clinic, I took care of him, eased the hair from his eyes, and patted his hand until he felt well enough to remark how pitiful a nurse I made. The calmness in Dumbledore's eyes reminded me of the day Malfoy had told me we were having a baby---"Everything's fine," that look said. I put my head in one hand, forgetting my location.

"Mister Potter, is there something wrong?"

I took a deep breath.

"Harry?"

"Yes, sir. I apologize."

"Whatever for?"

"I...don't recall the question."

"Mister Malfoy. How is he?"

"Oh. He's. Himself."

"I hear you make a striking couple."

I gave a fake smile. He heard no such thing.

Then something popped into my head. "Can the fact that I'm a darkling affect both of us? Both me and Draco?" I asked.

His bushy eyebrows furrowed. "I'm sure it could affect any of your intimate relationships, yes."

"But---significantly. Could it affect his body or his reactions to things?"

"I would, of course, need specifics to make that sort of conclusion."

"It may be too personal for your tastes...."

"Luckily I am a person, Mister Potter."

"Well---" I started. It wasn't that I didn't want to say it but that I didn't trust myself not to become emotional on the subject. "---last week Draco told me we were going to have a baby."

"Splendid!"

"Then this week we got rid of it."

"I see."

"So, I wondered if...well, I know pregnancy is possible in wizards, but I don't think it happens by accident. I wonder, did it have to do with the dementor taking me over?" My eyes searched around for something in his office, a map, a window, a crystal ball, anything that would help me elaborate. "You said it yourself: dementors can impregnate veela---and not just female veela, I remember from school. Now, I know Draco's not a veela, but are dementors restricted to veela? What about male humans? Or maybe Draco has veela blood he's never mentioned. Or maybe he was never pregnant in the first place; it might have been a dream. I don't---I don't want to go through that again, you see. If I know the reason why he got pregnant in the first place, then I could prevent it."

Dumbledore stared at me for a long moment. He placed his hand over a bright blue pocket on his robes, but abruptly it pulled away.

"I think that is a perfectly accurate reason why Mister Malfoy could have become pregnant," he said seriously. "Magic works in all sorts of mysterious ways."

"Oh," I said in relief. My tea cup quivered more than before. We both pretended not to notice.

So it wouldn't happen again as long as I remained human, not darkling.

After that day, I began spending a lot of time laying around my flat. I wasn't ill like before. I was bored. The more I thought about my life; about Malfoy; about the way he'd looked beautiful enough to put onto paper that day after we'd had sex; and the way I'd felt after the baby had gone, I wanted a new way to express myself. I could no longer get anything out in writing.

A few nights later, I took my friends out for supper. I felt it was time to make an announcement: "I'm going to draw for a living."

Hermione's forehead scrunched up in confusion. "Pardon?"

"Drawing. I'm going to make money drawing pictures."

"Aha."

She swiveled to Ron for help; he was more concerned with the way Malfoy was hoarding the rolls and butter, and looked to be plotting how to retrieve them. I asked the waitress, who was very nice looking, to Hermione's discomfort, to bring more.

"Oh, you're not going to teach drawing, are you?" Malfoy asked.

"No. Teaching was a one time thing. I'm just going draw."

"It was unbearably funny when you taught Latin to Muggle students. Do you remember, Potter? Why did you give it up, again?"

I felt hot and was adamant it was due to the proximity of the candles. "Because I wasn't cut out for it---"

"Because you had to speak in monotone whenever you pronounced a word in Latin or else something might go up in flames."

"Look, I can't help that I'm a wizard."

"How many Muggles had to be Obliviated after you levitated your desk?"

"It doesn't matter at all! The point is---"

"I don't know how you became a teacher in the first place."

"Well, I---"

"Harry," Hermione cut in, holding her glass to her lips, "what about writing? I though that was what you loved."

"I don't know. I feel...like something's missing."

"You don't have to write the long, intellectual things that people expect out of you. There are other subjects. Fiction---have you ever thought of writing that?

Malfoy leaned toward my ear. "Yes, write a story about a clumsy wizard and his dashing blond boyfriend."

I didn't acknowledge him except to grasp his knee in my hand. "I just want to move on, Hermione."

"Move on from what?"

"I don't know. Everything. I like experiencing new things."

"Harry," she sighed. "You give up your job and move on to another whenever you're the slightest bit discontent. You're...not getting sick again are you?"

"No."

"Remember the time he took up photography?" Malfoy asked around a mouthful of bread. "I liked that."

"It was disgusting," said Ron. He had been so engrossed in his spaghetti that I'd almost forgotten he was there.

"It was gorgeous," said Malfoy. "An entire series of photos on me. You'd make a lot of money if you'd sell those."

"I keep them under my mattress," I said, and left him to his own conclusions. "I might still write, but I'd like to see what drawing is like. I did it a little as a kid."

"I don't know if all this career-hopping is healthy," Hermione insisted. "It would be good if you settled down."

Her eyes were drawn away by the reappearance of the waitress, at whom Ron smiled widely and said "Thanks" in a rather base tone. Hermione cleared her throat and Malfoy snickered into my shoulder.

I turned to admire the overhead view of Diagon Alley. The reflection of the candles was visible in the window, as was Ron's bobbing head over his plate and the shine of Hermione's wine glass; through it I watched the darkening street and the wizards and witches going about their business. Some younger wizards scampered by, teenagers, reminding me of those troublemaking kids you heard about on the Wizard's Wireless. There was something inspiring about them.

Malfoy flicked away a candle that had floated by his face. "This is the worst part about dining in a wizarding restaurant," he said. "You've always got to be careful or your hair will catch fire."

"Want to go for a walk?" I asked.

He did not contain his surprise. "A walk."

"Yes."

"We could pretend to be in love. Wouldn't it be romantic?"

"Yes, let's go."

"Harry," Hermione started, "you can't walk out in the middle of---"

"I'll see you, okay?" I said.

I nodded farewell to her and Ron, and Malfoy and I set off hand in hand into the night.

As Malfoy smiled at the lit windows and displays of Christmas presents, I wondered what his reaction would be if I whispered that I would indeed ransack all the shops and steal every single item if it would content him. Such peculiarities had been zooming among my normally humdrum thoughts for the entire evening; I hadn't considered telling everyone about my interest in drawing until we'd been seated and handed our menus, but now that it was no longer a secret I was cleansed and ready to think up some other extravagant idea.

There was noise toward the end of the street, where the shops ended and the imposing form of Gringotts glowered at everyone. One shop was open still. We shuffled toward it. A cluster of icicles soaked up the dim, yellowy light and spread it out again in gentle flourishes, like a dripping, silvery chandelier. A shopkeeper handed cocoa to potential customers lounging on the benches against the wall of the building, from whose doorway music flowed quietly and slowly.

"We should dance," I said, and Malfoy looked appalled.

"Dance! With you?"

"Yes. With our feet and legs."

"But you have no rhythm."

"That doesn't matter."

"Fine, Potter. I'll have to lead."

I knew he wanted to question my adventurousness, however minute it may have been. If he had, I wouldn't have been able to explain.

Malfoy had precise, no-nonsense movements: one hand on my mid-back, one hand gripping mine, legs moving like stubborn twigs. He might have planned the situation in advance, the way he stepped skillfully through the snow as one might have strode over concrete. My hand tapped an uncertain beat on his shoulder as he swayed me around by my waist. There was a warm cove between the fall of his hair and his ear, where I stuck my face. He giggled when I did so.

"Cold nose," he said.

I pulled him closer.

We attracted attention. Once three songs had flurried around us, two more couples were dancing and the shopkeeper was patting himself on the back, realizing what a good and cordial businessman he was. He turned up the music, but then it was time for us to go.

Malfoy made a charming picture, all flushed from the cold and hair white with frost, standing on his threshold with his wool cap snug on his head. Out of politeness, I would have kissed him goodnight and made for home. He asked me to stay instead. I did. But I hoped very hard that Dumbledore was right and he would not become pregnant again.

The next week, a Hogwarts owl was banging impatiently on my window. I felt annoyed to leave the rug by the fire and the drawing pad that lay neatly before me, but once I felt the heaviness of the envelope I was intrigued into slitting its purple seal. Dumbledore's golden pocket watch fell into my hand. There was a note.

Harry,

This watch works differently than a Time-Turner in that when you go back in time you

stay back in time; you are free to redo anything you like, but you are not free

to see your old self as you make mistakes. You simply are your old self all

over again, with the exception that you will know what is to happen already.

I've used it just one other time in my life, for the benefit of another, and would

not consider using it again unless the circumstances were appropriate. I'm already

responsible for depriving you of your parents. I don't want to be

responsible for depriving you of your child.

Albus Dumbledore

The skin of my arm was burning. I realized I was sitting too close to the fire. I scooted away. Ron came home and mentioned his amazing night with Hermione. I didn't hear. I could change things. I had amazing power.

My index finger trailed behind Venus, along the watch's perimeter. The revolving planets hypnotized me into thinking that I was the perfect choice for this power, the perfect person to control their movements, though I knew within me that I was as small as anything else. The first time I had seen the watch, I thought the planets were just decoration. They pulled me forward. I was strongly reminded of my talk about fate with Dumbledore weeks before, and wondered just why the fates thought that I---of all people---was worthy of choosing my own.

There was a hand for the year, the hour, the minute, the second, and so on. I set all twelve of them and pressed and pulled some gadgetry.

The planets stopped. They began to spin backwards. I felt my supper stir in my belly. It was like I had latched onto ten Portkeys at once.

My decision wasn't as easy as I'm making it out to be.

Sirius. I could go back six years and save Sirius. That was my first thought.

But wouldn't it bring me all the happiness in the world to go back and save Lily and James? Certainly that thought would have made me happier if I hadn't realized there would be no point in going back to be a baby, as Dumbledore wrote that I would be my old self all over again, and being able to affect nothing at all.

There were other things I might have done: accepting the offer to tryout for Bulgaria's Quidditch team just after seventh year; warning Professor Snape, who had departed one night to spy on an important Death Eater meeting and had never returned.

As much as those prospects made me smile, they were out of the question. Dumbledore had implied precisely what he wanted me to do with his watch: I don't want to be responsible for depriving you of your child. I knew where I was going.

Malfoy was there to break my fall.

"Ouch! Watch who you're trampling, Potter!"

With a swipe of my hand, my hair was out of my eyes and I straightened up to find myself in the exact spot I'd been when Malfoy told me he was pregnant: standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.

Malfoy went to rummage in the cushions of the sofa. I walked toward him.

"What are you doing?" I asked, pushing my glasses up my nose.

"Did I not just ask you if you'd seen my nail file?"

"Er...."

I was still adjusting to the sudden change. The watch was no longer in my hand. The fireplace was unlit. It was daytime. Also, now that I knew what Malfoy was going to say before he said it, I noticed he occasionally touched his stomach. I guess he had been planning to talk to me about it for some time.

"As I was going to say before you started acting stupid," Malfoy went on. "I think you've done this to me on purpose."

My eyes snapped up. "Done what to you on purpose?"

"Got me pregnant, nitwit!"

"Oh, yes!"

"You have, then. I knew it."

"No, I haven't. I mean, of course not. I was just agreeing. You're pregnant."

"I don't need you to agree," he said, and fell onto the couch with a magazine rolled up in his hand. "But I need you to do something else for me."

So this was it.

"If you'll be a dear, that is," he said.

I feigned confusion. "What do you need?"

"Well, it's not as if I have any change to spare. You'll have to pay for the abortion." It disgusted me, because I knew it was coming. I knew how nonchalant his tone would be. He immediately flipped to the centerfold of his magazine. "How long do you think it would take me to get abs like his?"

I didn't acknowledge the picture of the sweaty man he held up. "No," I said.

"What? You don't think I could do it? I'll show you."

"Not that. I mean, I'm not paying for any abortion."

He looked at me over the top of the magazine. "Stop being silly."

"I'm perfectly serious."

"You know there's no other way. I can hardly pay my rent as it is." I stood my ground and looked at him through the wisp of blond draped in front of his face. Shock finally registered in his eyes. "Potter, do you have any idea how much money it costs for a man to get an abortion?"

I lifted an eyebrow. "I should hope you don't."

"I most certainly---I most certainly---"

"Do you know?"

"No!"

"Good."

"But you're getting me one? I can't do it without you."

"You've made that clear," I said. I turned to the kitchen, hearing his anxious footsteps in my wake.

"Well?" he asked.

"I can't, Malfoy. I won't."

"Harry!"

"No."

There were sandwich things laid out. When I first lived through this, I must have been making lunch when Malfoy came to me with the news. The bread was soft like it had been there for just a couple minutes.

"What are you saying? How can you say this? Potter, look at me!"

I began cutting a tomato into fine slices. "Don't know how to make it any clearer. I refuse to pay for anyone's abortion."

"You're not even reacting. You bastard, I bet you did do this. Dumbledore told us you turned into a dementor because you'd forgotten about your parents. You have all these ideas of family floating around in your head, so you decided to knock me up and have your own way!"

"How could I have done that?"

"It doesn't matter. It's done and you're satisfied."

"I didn't even know you were pregnant until a minute ago," I said, turning to his outraged face.

"You wanted it, though. I bet you just---just stuck it in there and have been waiting for me to come to you with the results."

I grabbed his shoulder. "Malfoy, don't be---"

"Don't touch me! Don't touch me until you agree."

I sighed and returned to the sitting room with my sandwich. I wasn't hungry as much as I wanted something to do with myself while Malfoy argued with me. I was trying not to blow up. No use in both of us losing our tempers.

The sound of breaking glass came from the kitchen. I hoped Malfoy had broken nothing of Ron's. For half a second, I wanted to check that he hadn't hurt himself in his anger, but he appeared by my side, panting, red-faced, and desperate. He fell to his knees and put his head in my lap.

"Potter, please! I'm not above begging for money."

"I can see that---"

"You know I can't afford it, you know it."

It would be a lie to write that I felt no sympathy for him. He didn't ask for this. Neither of us did, and there was no way we could have predicted it. I felt, though, that if I looked at him in pity, if I assured him that I'd be there every step of the way, he would gaze up at me with his frightened eyes and I'd be lost all over again; we'd be at the clinic the next day.

"What if you gave me a loan?" he pleaded. "A tiny---"

"No. I won't give you a cent of my money until this is over. If you can find a way to pay for it on your own, I won't interfere. That's your business. But I won't pay for it. Never."

"This is my life---my entire life!"

"Draco," I said firmly, and brought up his chin, "it's my entire life, too."

I ate quietly that afternoon; he leaned on my knee, choking on fake sobs and cursing me in ways I don't care to reiterate.

Malfoy did not mention the ordeal again for days. I feared he had found means of payment and was not pregnant anymore until I went to pick him up from rehearsal one day and saw him in a dark corner giving a man head. It was lewd, even for him. He looked over his shoulder at me, and when our eyes locked I realized he had done it on purpose. We had arranged that I would pick him up today and he had told me exactly where to find him.

I wasn't going to cave because of jealousy, if that was what he thought. I wouldn't pay for his abortion even if he left me for someone else because of this.

My balcony was a good place to think. I went home to sketch outside, while Mrs. Such and Such examined her plants next door. I did the same thing the next day and the next, even in the rain under the awning. No thoughts came to me on how to improve the situation, though.

Malfoy found my hiding spot eventually and began to join me there. We didn't talk about the pregnancy.

"When did you start drawing?" he asked.

His question took me by surprise. It took a moment before I realized that the night I told Ron, Hermione, and Malfoy I was going to take up drawing had occurred before Dumbledore sent me his watch, and he wouldn't know anything about this yet. I was disappointed that he wouldn't remember our dancing in the snow either.

"Recently," I said.

"You're not very good."

"Pity. I wanted to have a gallery."

"That's silly. You've never drawn in your life."

"I drew my Aunt Petunia a picture of a motorbike once. I think she threw it away."

"At least your aunt agrees with me: you haven't any talent. Now go write something lengthy and unintelligible and make some money."

"I've given that up, Malfoy."

"Sure."

A month later I stopped drawing. I had gone to a wizarding art show, where the pictures were elaborate in buttery colors I never knew existed, on gigantic canvas and other interesting materials. I realized, when I noticed Dean Thomas standing modestly beside his portrait of a fallen fighter in the war, that I was way out of my league and wasn't as passionate as any artist there. I greeted Dean, who I hadn't seen since school, and was inwardly embarrassed that I'd ever picked up my cheap graphite pencil.

Ron, Hermione, and Malfoy didn't comment when I took up guitar. They were busy covering their ears. I gave that up, too.

Soon after, I saw the newest racing broom on a poster in Diagon Alley. It was pasted on the wall outside a Quidditch supply store and read, AMATEUR TRAVELING LEAGUE TRYOUTS. I took the poster to my flat.

"Look at this. I would get to be one of the first people to use the Nimbus Platinum," I told Malfoy. I was at the kitchen table and he was making a bowl of soup for himself.

"What are you on about?"

"This, this!" I said urgently, tapping the poster. "The Quidditch league!"

"You can't join a Quidditch league. When would you write?"

"I told you I don't write anymore. I haven't written a thing in weeks."

"You'll start again."

"Shut it. I want to look into this."

He leaned over my shoulder to wrinkle his nose at the poster. "Oh, it's amateur."

"What did you expect? That they were having open tryouts for the national team?"

"You're not going, anyway, so there's no reason in gawking at this nonsense."

I turned to him, but he had turned back to his meal. "What do you mean I'm not going? I love Quidditch. I don't have a job. I'm going to try out."

"I beg to differ." He brushed past me and into the sitting room, where he began to eat his soup in front of the television.

I followed.

"Malfoy, this is the only way for me to make money. One day, I'll have to move out of this flat if we're to raise a child together and I won't have Ron to keep up the other half of rent. It's not as though you have a steady job."

It was quiet for a long time. I stood and watched as he was sucked in by the weatherman talking about hail in the north.

"Where's Weasley?" he finally asked.

"On a date with Hermione."

"Oh, they're still making believe they're in love? It's been about two months already."

"Maybe they are in love."

"Doubtful. They're complete opposites."

I didn't bother using the two of us as a counterargument, because he was already slipping away to wash out his bowl. Then again, we weren't in love, so it wouldn't have made sense in the first place. I followed him.

"Have you got nothing else to say about this?" I asked, looking down at the tryout poster on the kitchen table.

"I told you that you're to have nothing to do with it."

"I suppose you'll just hold me down with that gargantuan muscle mass of yours."

"Potter," he said crossly. "You can't---can't force me to have this baby and then leave me alone to take care of it!"

"I'm not leaving you."

"Do you think they'll let me tag along? Maybe I'll get to go into labor in the middle of a match. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"It's only eight months out of the year."

"Fantastic."

"No one is forcing you to have the baby. Get a job and do away with it yourself. You're able."

"I can't," he said slowly.

"Why?"

"Because, Potter."

"Why, damn it?"

"Wouldn't you break it off with me if I had an abortion?" His voice shook out of his mouth in an angry torrent. I was startled into silence. "I've fucked so many men since I've been with you---I've even had relationships for months at a time while I've been tired of you---but you always let me come back without a word! But right now you're so unwavering about this pregnancy. Wouldn't it drive you to toss me out the door if I got rid of it?"

"Yes," I said. "Would you care if I tossed you out the door? You seem to have an endless supply of men to see to."

"Yes! Why do you think I keep coming back to you? Why do you think I haven't got an extra job because of this? Why do you think I haven't manipulated Weasley or Granger into loaning me some money? I could scrounge something up from one of my rich relatives---I have those, you know. I don't want...to be away from you. Not really."

"Well...."

It felt like we had accomplished nothing.

He folded his arms over his chest. "Are you still going to try out for the team?"

"I've got to."

I made the team a couple months later---reserve Seeker. It would be a while yet before we went on tour, and in the meantime we were in the London area practicing.

Malfoy didn't react when I told him the news. I didn't expect him to, really. He was three and a half months pregnant and a complete wreck. The news was only additional pain, but somehow I was sure this would make things better for us. I put my hand on his stomach and told him everything would be all right, to which he replied "Stuff it."

Ron and Hermione were happy about me making the team. We discussed it one day in my living room.

"But I'm confused," said Hermione. "You've never showed much interest in Quidditch outside of school. And your jobs are usually for recreation, Harry; you've told us your compensation pays for your half of rent. Do you really want to move all over the world?"

"Well," I said. This might have been a good time to tell her about the baby. There was a bulge on Malfoy's stomach now, which was easy to hide in baggy clothes, but he didn't want anyone to know. I think he was holding out that I would change my mind.

I told them everything, from the pregnancy to our suspicions on just how Malfoy got pregnant in the first place.

"Well, I'll be," Ron said with wide eyes. "You and Malfoy. A baby."

"Yeah."

"And how does this relate to Quidditch?" Hermione wondered.

"I'd like to make enough money to buy a new flat for Malfoy, me, and the baby, when it arrives, to live in together."

She turned directly to Ron. They communicated a vague lovers' message through their eyes; as quick as it had started, Hermione was looking at me again. "Harry."

"Hermione."

"Harry," said Ron, "we were thinking...well---before---we didn't want to impose or anything, but now that you've told us this---"

"You see, Ron and I have been wanting to move in with one another," said Hermione, "but I didn't want to stay here with you two---didn't want to impose, like Ron said---and Ron didn't want to move out because he knew you wouldn't be able to pay for the place on your own."

"Oh," I said. I looked at them. Their elbows were touching. Their knees, too. They looked comfortable and natural together. "All right."

"All right?" they said at the same time.

I made an indifferent noise in my throat. "I want to see you two together. I've been waiting for Ron to stop poking around in other girls' knickers and settle on you, Hermione, when he's liked you since we were kids. I'm sort of proud."

"Er," said Ron, with pink ears, "thanks?"

Once the baby was born, Hermione would move into the flat and I would move in with Malfoy.

The months of pregnancy went quicker than expected. Malfoy stopped being cold toward me, which was pleasing because I hadn't had sex in a ridiculous amount of time. He was quite aggressive, impaling himself on me, and I began to laugh at the absurdity that he was attempting to kill me from it; I whispered that thought to him in the darkness and his big stomach convulsed in laughter as well.

It happened under a gray summer sky after Malfoy and I had gone out for breakfast. We were strolling in the park, and he wasn't the least bit amused when water split through the clouds at the same moment our child decided the scenery inside Malfoy's belly wasn't interesting anymore. We arrived at Witches in Waiting sopping and annoyed.

I lagged behind as a man wheeled him into the room in which the baby would be delivered. Now, I cannot describe to you anything that happened in that room. It's far too gruesome and I don't think I want to relive it myself. But I can say that Malfoy wasn't keen on going to bed with me for a long time after, and I'm never, never impregnating anyone again.

That evening, he was recovering from the ordeal and the room was filled with his moans about starting a campaign to illegalize pregnancy. I think I managed to talk him out of it. The child was placed into his arms a few moments later, which calmed him, and he spent a long while scrutinizing whose bone structure it had inherited.

"We'll have to save up for plastic surgery if it's got yours, Potter. I don't know why you haven't looked into it yourself."

I placed a hand on my face, startled, and when he caught me I pretended I'd had an itch on my cheek.

I watched him coo at the baby ("What lovely gray eyes you have. What a lovely complexion."), wondering if he hadn't exchanged our child for a small mirror, though as I leaned forward I saw a squashed pink face and a tuft of mousy hair sticking out of the blankets. It went on for another ten minutes. Eventually Malfoy became sleepy and enlisted me to come up with our child's first compliments, but I found there wasn't much else to say, and brought up important matters:

"What about our jobs until I leave for the Quidditch tour?" I asked.

"Maybe I'll stay home instead of going back to the theater," Malfoy said tiredly, with his nose on the child's forehead.

"You don't have to, I guess. You've been whining for so long about not being able to act. You must want to go back."

"Maybe I'll stay home for a little while."

My gut clenched as I realized he was not saying this out of laziness but for a second he wished for something sincere with the bundle in his drooping arms. I took the child before Malfoy nodded off, and hoped, for its sake, we would not continue with our indifferent romance; perhaps someday we would have something sincere ourselves.

Several nights later, we were tossing in discomfort in our bed at Malfoy's flat. I wondered if, in addition to veela and dementor blood, I had banshee in my veins, because surely normal children did not wail at such decibels.

"Go make Clarence happy," said Malfoy.

"I don't know how. You do it. You're the mother."

"If you ever say that again, Potter, I'll---"

The world is much quieter if you put your pillow over your head. Faintly I recognized the baby's cry and Malfoy threatening my testicles, but it was three in the morning and somehow I was slipping away.

In two weeks, I left for the tour.

I'd not experienced the excitement of being surrounded in foreign customs since my first year at Hogwarts. Seeing unusual structures, eating exotic foods, and meeting interesting people made me regret what I'd been missing out on. Quidditch was challenging and made me realize how out of shape I had become while constantly at my flat writing; I didn't receive much glory as a reserve Seeker, but I enjoyed the practices between matches and the friendships I made.

I was put into such spirits that I took to imagining just what happiness awaited me at home. Malfoy and I would have a shining new flat with our son, who had certainly grown in the eight months I'd been gone; we would go on outings and teach Clarence to read; Malfoy and I would make immaculate love the first night of my return; and his voice would indeed sound like bells as he greeted me.

Once I did return, though, I found that life was not as picture perfect as I'd hoped.

"Hi," he said, when he met me at the train station with the baby in his arms. I leaned forward to kiss him, but he turned away, saying, "Stop it, Potter."

I ignored it; he had probably been excited and stayed up all night waiting for me, and now he was exhausted.

I didn't expect it to be difficult to find a new flat, but there we were stuck in Malfoy's cramped little place. There was one bedroom. The bathroom was tiny and had only a shower, while we needed a tub for Clarence. He could only fit in the sink for so long. The kitchen and living room were pretty much the same place, which left us bumping into each other often.

We didn't speak much, despite our confines. There wasn't anything to say. He had no gossip from the theater, as he hadn't been there in well over a year, and every time I mentioned the league he looked up sharply, as though reminded of a tragic misfortune.

Clarence made constant noise, his voice bouncing off the walls and multiplying around us. I couldn't take it. I didn't know how to take care of a baby. After three weeks of Malfoy complaining that I didn't change his diaper enough, or that I lounged around too much, or that the baby wanted me to hold him, I was a shaking wreck. I began staying at off-season practices much longer than was required.

One night, we were awake past one in the morning, waiting for Clarence to nod off. His eyelids fell, at last, and Malfoy and I looked at each other in relief.

"Does he do this all the time?" I asked.

"Obviously. He's hardly nine months old."

"Isn't there a potion or something we could give him?"

"You want to give a baby a sleeping potion?"

"Would it hurt?"

"Might kill him."

"Oh."

Malfoy detangled himself from the covers and padded to the crib. He pressed his nose to the top of Clarence's head, as I noticed he frequently did, and lowered the baby's torso, then his legs, then his round soft head into the blankets. "What are we going to do when he gets too big to sleep in this?" he asked. "An extra bed won't fit in here."

"By then we'll have a new place, one with two or three bedrooms."

"Are you sure? I don't think we've been looking hard enough."

"What do you expect? I'm at practice and you've got to stay here with Clarence."

"A shame." He returned to bed and reached for his wand to spell out the light, but I grabbed his wrist.

"Why? What's a shame?"

He shrugged. "I'm tired of staying home with him. I think I should get a job and you should stay home."

"What could you possibly do?"

His face clouded with annoyance. "I could find something. I could work for the Ministry."

"Didn't you once tell me how glad you were you didn't work in those stuffy Ministry offices?"

"That's different. Now we have a child."

"Well, forget it. I don't know about taking care of babies."

"You think I do?" Malfoy sneered. "You think I've not been calling Granger for advice every week? It's incredibly embarrassing."

"You'll get over it." I reached for my wand, but this time he caught my wrist.

"No. Now that it's been brought up, I want to discuss it."

"There's nothing to discuss!"

"Harry---"

"I don't want to deal with this," I spat.

I ended up pacing the kitchen, rummaging in the cupboard for coffee and finding a half empty can at the back, of which I ended up making little use because I didn't know how to work Malfoy's cheap Muggle machine; the red light went on, off, blink, blink, blink, and I flicked it until it turned off completely.

The floor creaked. I turned to see that Malfoy was worked up enough to have followed me in here, pulling his bathrobe close to his body.

"Potter, I won't stand for this any longer. If you want to live with me, you're going to fucking compromise. I don't want you halfway across the world again. I want you here, so I won't be stuck in the flat twenty-four hours a day."

"Our baby can hear you raising your voice."

"He's not your baby!" I reeled back with the strength of his words. He looked like he'd wanted to say that for a long while. "He's mine, because you're never here to take care of him! You can't be his father if you're not raising him."

"Am I not sending you my paycheck?"

"It's not the money, Harry. It's you. Don't you want your son to have two parents?"

"He has two parents---"

"One who's never here. Even now, when you're not on tour, you're at practice all day. We hardly ever see you."

"What do you want? Should I stop practicing altogether and be thrown off the team?"

"Yes, actually. That would suit me fine."

"That's not going to happen."

"Harry," he said, walking toward me, "I want you here. You don't have to leave for most of the year to have a job. You can write---"

"I won't, for God's sake! I won't write because people expect it of me."

"Then don't! Write because you like it. You must have at some point, or else you wouldn't have started it in the first place."

"Do you know how humiliating it is to know your book is selling not for its content but because of your name on the cover?"

"You're making excuses. That's not true---"

"It's the truth, damn it! I read the papers. I see what people think of my book."

"You told me that Albus Dumbledore enjoyed your book."

"Dumbledore gets excited about earmuffs! Even you---you've told me that you use my book as a doorstopper."

Malfoy sighed. He put his hands on my chest. "I was joking with you."

He looked as tired as I felt. I didn't want to satisfy him with pity, so I kept my tone sharp. "It doesn't matter. I stopped writing because it wasn't getting me anywhere."

"You publish such odd, analytic things. Maybe if you tried something...more common? A biography---people would love that."

I pulled away from him, turned around, and sat at the wobbly kitchen table, angry that the coffee machine had started to sputter now that I wasn't in the mood for it anymore.

"I don't want to bother you," he continued quietly. "I just want you to be home. You could make money here. And I could go back to performing...."

I felt him close behind me. His hands came around my shoulders, and he rested his head on mine. For a moment I was going to whirl around and hug him.

"Piss off," I said instead.

I think I hurt him. I didn't turn to find out.

The next day I woke up in a solemn, cold mood, and frost came from my mouth as I breathed. A scattering of black hair lay on the pillow. I knew what was going on. Though, when the dementor came into me I didn't care to fix the problem; it felt natural that I should dwell on the most terrible things in my life: a lack of parents, a dead godfather, an unhappy baby, a bothersome lover.

I was too depressed to brush my teeth, and leaned onto the sink, staring into the dirty mirror. I wondered how long it was until the next tour---did I even feel like going on the next tour? Was it fulfilling to sit aside and watch a grinning, pompous man catch my Snitch? Maybe I should give up Quidditch and family altogether and move far away from everyone.

The door creaked open. Along with Malfoy, the gurgling of Clarence in the background entered the bathroom. "Sorry," he said, startled. "Didn't know you were---"

He stopped. He saw the look on my face. His eyes went to the frost on my lips and the edges of the mirror. His mouth thinned.

"No," he said, pink and furious. "I won't stand for this, Potter! Dumbledore said you have control over this dementor thing, and I won't tolerate you dragging yourself down when you don't have to."

I didn't respond. I looked at my shining, pale eyes in the mirror, falling deep into them. My mother stood before me, except she wasn't my mother---she was Lily Potter, and Voldemort was cackling over her limp body.

Malfoy's voice rang behind me. "Potter...Potter...are you listening?"

"Piss off."

"Piss off! That's all you care to tell me when you feel like being irresponsible, is it? Well, I can't just piss off nowadays---can I?---because if I left Clarence here with you he'd be neglected, wouldn't he?"

I had no reply. My head throbbed. My ears throbbed. His voice did not sound like bells.

"Fine, Potter. Fine! I think I will piss off."

He left.

My vision was blurring, and before more terrible thoughts flooded my brain I realized I no longer heard the sound of my baby.

*

In the middle of the night, Malfoy came to take his clothing away. There were stacks of his shirts, trousers, and robes. He took every one, every lone sock, and the baby's, too. It drove me out of my mind to see the place so empty. The flat still smelled of mashed peas and powder; my baby's smiling face came to mind every time I caught a whiff.

I didn't really want to be a hermit. I felt my cold, sweating head, remembering that I'd come to that conclusion once in my life already. With this darkness in me, I couldn't achieve anything. So I focused hard on cheerful thoughts like Dumbledore had told me, my wand tight in my fingers, the darkness trembling on the surface of my skin until it disappeared.

The miraculous part of it all was not that I missed them and found myself going after them a week later, but that I overcame the dementor in me with sheer willpower. My eyes were green again, my skin smoother. I hoped my hair would grow back quickly, as I had to do a lot of grooming to make it seem like the head of a twenty-two-year-old. My skin was gray in some places; still, it was fading like the unhappiness clouding my brain.

I spent a couple afternoons in Hogsmeade, wanting to be as close as possible to Hogwarts. I felt that if I were reminded of my best years it would be less of a chore to remain healthy. As a student, I'd never paid much attention to the houses at the end of the village. I looked thoughtfully at them and wondered about the families who must have lived inside...

I might have been drawn to Clarence's wail. It's the closest thing I have to a logical explanation as to how I found them. Neither Ron nor Hermione had come by to inform me that Malfoy had barged in one night with a baby on his hip and a pitiable expression, and I couldn't blame them for allowing him to stay. I didn't know whether he'd told them what had happened; whatever he said, Hermione and Ron wouldn't leave a baby in the cold.

Hermione came to the door when I knocked. She wore an it's-about-time sort of face. Ron was trying to nap on the sofa through the baby's muffled cries, which issued from my old bedroom. His red hair stuck out at all angles like he'd been pulling it lately. Hermione pointed me in the right direction.

Malfoy was sitting on the bed, facing the window, so I knew he'd seen me coming. Clarence lay abandoned in an old-looking, brown crib in the corner, his face hot with tears and furious with hunger. He'd dropped his bottle. I smiled as the bottle vibrated next to his head, as if he were using all the magic he could muster to bring it back. He just couldn't manage.

I held him close to my chest and he instantly fell asleep when the bottle's teat penetrated his lips.

"Don't touch him," said Malfoy.

I ignored him, wrapping one of the blue blankets around the baby and settling against the pillows of the bed. Malfoy would rather yawn out at the rain than look at me. It wasn't as insulting as it should have been, as I wasn't there precisely to make up with him.

I had nearly fallen asleep by the time he spoke.

"Well, what are you going to do, sit around and decompose? I have things I could be doing," he said.

"Besides driving my friends out of their minds?"

"They said I could stay as long as I like."

"That really means, 'We want you out pretty damned soon,' which will be in a few minutes if I can help it."

Malfoy looked over his shoulder. "Do you intend to kidnap me?"

"You'll come willingly."

He sniffed, rising with a great stretch. The bed squeaked as he sat next to me, and that was when he noticed the gray blotch staining my cheek. "Oh," he sighed, placing his fingers near it, "perhaps this was why you were terrible to me."

"It only appeared the day you left. I didn't behave any way to you that I couldn't control."

"Don't think you'd have been forgiven even if you could blame it on being a dementor."

"I'm not here to ask forgiveness, Malfoy. I'm here to tell you that I've been thinking about my life and my child, and I want to do what's best for both."

"And what's that?"

"I don't know, but...I think it might have something to do with you."

"Yeah, why?"

"Look" ---I realized I didn't know how to say it without sounding sixteen years old, with my girlfriend under the Quidditch stands--- "you're the only person I can see myself with. I don't want to be a sap, but, damn it, I want you and Clarence to come home with me. I'll get a job nearby---a stable one---and I'll make you comfortable and I'll buy you what you need---"

"Potter," he said with a smirk, "you're not trying to replace my father, are you?"

"Shut up!" I felt a stirring of rage and tried to suppress it, wanting desperately to remove these sentiments from my head so we could get on with how things were supposed to be: shallow, neutral, sexual. Merlin, this was difficult! "I'm trying to tell you something. Do you---do you want to live with me or not? I'm offering you something here. I want to help you take care of our child."

Malfoy wasn't impressed. "What's in it for me?"

"What's in it for---?" I shot off the bed. I forgot Clarence on my chest and stumbled in shock, and changed my grip on the sleeping baby. "What could you possibly do if not come with me? Are you going to stay with Ron and Hermione forever? Going to burden them until Clarence grows up? It's not as if you can afford daycare while you ponce around at the local theater all day."

"Ponce around! I'll have you know I work hard. My mother was an amazing performer, she trained me---"

"She trained you during the summers for hours a day. You went to bed dripping with the sweat of professional instruction. Yes, I know all about it. But it's not good enough. You hardly make enough to take care of yourself, much less a child!"

"What do you want me to say? Or should I jump into your arms?"

"No! But I'll---" We hadn't considered the baby when we started raising our voices. I was interrupted by a shrill scream from under my chin. "Fuck. Look at..."

Malfoy took the baby and rested him in the large pillows of the bed. He was careful that his hair didn't cover the baby's face as he placed his head against the mat of dark brown hair. "Don't cry. He'll go away soon, Morty."

"Morty? What are you talking about?"

"His name is Morty now, after my Uncle Mortimer. Not that it's any of your concern."

"You can't just change his name."

"I'll do what I please and no one will stop me. Hush, Mortimer, sweetheart."

"Dear God." My head throbbed. Somewhere within it, Malfoy was smashing a large stick into everything I cared about, laughing most spitefully. My eyes closed, and then snapped open as a body molded against mine. "What!" I started.

"You win. I give in." He put his head on my shoulder.

"Malfoy, you---"

"But only if you keep your word and buy me everything I want."

"I didn't exactly say that."

"I'll need the best of everything for Morty."

"About that, though---"

"I want a new crib. This one that Weasley's mother loaned me is disgraceful. I'm ashamed to be in the same room with it." He regarded the crib with the air of someone sampling bile. "Are we going straight away? Shall we stay here for the night?"

It happened so quickly and with such simplicity that I was still processing the feeling of his hands against my neck. He hadn't left my arms since he'd gone into them. Clarence had stopped crying. I don't recall when.

"Well," I murmured into his hair. It was difficult not to push him away and examine his eyes for sanity. "You'll...have to stop seeing other men."

"You're only joking."

"Oh."

I found out later that he was the one joking. He had been too tired for the thought of another man since Clarence was born.

We stayed at Ron and Hermione's for supper. Ron was thrilled to know that we would be spending the night once he learned Malfoy would be gone the next day, and he even carried Malfoy's trunk to the car.

"I bought a house in Hogsmeade," I told a pleased Malfoy later. "Well, at least, I'm in the process of buying a house."

A few weeks after that, Malfoy, Clarence, and I moved to the outskirts of the town, where the grass was dead and the flowers were embrowned from malnourishment. It was what I could afford with no job and the money I received from the Ministry. Our cottage was small but by no means like Malfoy's flat. It was quaint, with two bedrooms and a tiny guest room. There was a bathroom that contained both a shower and a tub with claws for legs. To Malfoy's interest, a plot of dirt in the back was in workable condition.

"We could grow lots here. It would save money on food." He looked at me as if I would be the one handling the shovel and he would be the one daintily sprinkling the seeds.

As we dressed for bed on our first night there, Malfoy, to say the least, jumped me. I squawked in excitement, and was on my back with his hand down my tenting trousers. That was the moment I knew he was satisfied with the way things had turned out. I don't know why he gave in to it all so easily. Maybe he had a spark of romance lingering in him. Maybe he couldn't stand living with my friends and I was his only escape. The reason didn't matter to me. I had my son and my lover.

I learned to control the dementor, swearing never to spend another day with it controlling me, because it was the worst state I could be in. Malfoy seemed to realize this, too, and was especially careful around me on my irritable days.

Most importantly, I learned to accept the heritage that I wanted so badly to forget. The thought of what my parents really were was not pleasant, but I could live with it.

No matter the truth that Dumbledore told me, today I think I have some of Lily and James in me. I've been attached for so long to the concept that I am their child that by making myself believe I inherited something of theirs---whether eye color or Quidditch skill---I did inherit something. My magic took my will and it made my will reality: I am Harry Potter, a man with a roundish sort of nose and a shortish sort of height.

*

The evening was snowy. Malfoy, Clarence, and I were bundled up on the deck. Malfoy and I had mugs of cocoa, while Clarence was more dignified than to rot his teeth with such frivolities and preferred a bottle of warm milk. Our cheeks were rosy as we watched carolers in the distance come closer and closer to our cottage.

Clarence's bottle slipped from his mouth. "Po," he said. He'd been coming up with clever words lately. Why, just that morning he'd commented "Mep" and "Foofee."

"What do you think 'Po' means, Draco?"

"It means, 'Potter, you're the worst father in the world---now, get my fecking milk.'"

"I disagree," I said, taking the milk from Clarence's lap and presenting it to him; he thanked me with a spit bubble.

"You don't pay attention," said Malfoy. "If you knew Mortimer like I do, you'd see."

The carolers were within hearing distance. I hummed along for a time, though I did not know the song, as it was of wizard origin. It was light and full of harmony and pounded holiday cheer so deep into me that I huddled closer to my family and settled back on our snug bench.

"Oh," I remembered. "I started writing a story."

"I bet it's terrible. What's it about?"

"It's fiction---about a clumsy wizard and his dashing blond boyfriend."

Malfoy smirked at me from over his scarf. "What an extraordinary idea. Sounds like something I would suggest."

We would spend a lot of years on that deck. It was where Clarence took his first steps, where I finished my first novel in the spring sunshine, where Malfoy skinned his knee chasing our new dog, who apparently liked chewing the hairbrushes of blond men. I had been amused when he came to me for comfort, in mourning of the hairbrush more than the blood trailing down his leg.

We waited there that evening until the carolers had sung to our house and the wind picked up and we were forced inside. I put Clarence to bed and found Malfoy waiting for me beside the crackling fire. I walked to him. He kissed me for a long while, but when his fingers moved toward the front of my trousers I wouldn't let him unbutton them. I was too content. I didn't need anything then besides his soft, pliable lips working against mine. We only paused when Clarence's cry split through the quiet room. I pulled away from Malfoy, looking into his eyes.

He seemed worried, like he thought I was angered at the disturbance and would transform into a dementor that very second. Not so. I smiled at him and took his hand, and we went to check on Clarence together. I didn't recall the last time I was so happy.

[Finis]

"Knowledge... is power." ---Francis Bacon, Religious Meditations, 'Of Heresies'