𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

Part 6

1.

He moves into Potter’s bedroom, and Pyrrha takes over the spare. He buttons his robes up to the neck during the days, his shirt collars just as high. The baby keeps him busy, but she sleeps through the night (even though she rarely naps anymore). Potter stops buying as much take-away, and instead he cooks bacon sandwiches for supper, chicken and potatoes and whatever else he happens to find at the grocer’s. He brings home chocolate cake and Draco more than happily eats half when Potter is at the Ministry.

The other half, he and Potter eat in bed.

He doesn’t want Potter to touch him. He doesn’t want Potter to see him starkers, not like this, or to fuck him like a man fucks a woman, or even up the arse sometimes. But Potter’s hands constantly seek him out when they are alone. Potter constantly is unbuttoning his robes and his shirts and his trousers, his tongue is everywhere, tasting, claiming, his hands everywhere, touching, teasing.

He gives into Potter because he wants it. He craves it. He’ll sit at home sometimes, Pyrrha playing in a pen nearby, and he’ll flush at the memory of Potter’s hands, clenched around his cock the night before, tugging him until he moaned as he came. He comes with Potter’s name on his lips sometimes. He groans Potter’s name when his lips close around Potter’s cock, hot and full and bitter in his mouth, choking and burning, but when Potter calls his name, he shudders and his cock spurts too.

Draco has stopped being embarrassed. He still finds it queer that Potter’s hands search him out. They can be watching that awful talking box after he puts Pyrrha down to bed, and Potter’s warm hand will wiggle its way down his trousers and Potter knows that he can have him squirming and moaning and wet and practically pleading to be fucked before long.

They’ll shower together in the mornings, and he’ll lift a leg around Potter’s hip and lean into the tile wall and Potter will fuck him there. The water muffles the sounds they make, as Potter thrusts in and out, pacing himself before he pushes in with a grunt and his teeth pressing into Draco’s shoulders. The moans echo and the evidence swirls down the drain with the water and glistening bubbles of soap.

Pyrrha has her first birthday. Draco regrets that neither of his parents could see her, their only grandchild, their only heir. She could care less. She grins, chocolate cake smeared around her mouth. She calls Draco Daddy and Potter, well, Draco doesn’t know what to call him, but she calls him Dada. Draco reckons it’s all right.

He combs her silken blonde hair. It’s darker than his was as a baby, but she is still very fair. Her eyes have changed from a muddy slate gradually into green, like Potter’s. He stares at them sometimes. She smiles and grins and babbles nonsense to him, and he thinks that he is glad she has Potter’s eyes because they are much prettier than his grey.

Weasley and Granger and Weasley’s sister and a few other of Potter’s friends, namely Longbottom and a girl with stringy blonde hair and bugly eyes come to visit and wish Pyrrha a happy birthday. She grins at them all, the same way she grins at him and Draco is envious. He doesn’t bother to hide his envy, either and he glares at Granger when she holds onto the baby.

“Why did they all come?” he hisses at Potter, who serves punch in the kitchen. “Why did you invite them all?”

“Am I supposed to keep her a secret?” Potter asks.

“Well…what about me?” Draco insists. “You bloody told them all and if the Minist-”

“They’re not going to tell the Ministry, Malfoy,” Potter says as he charms a row of punch glasses to dance across the air into the living room. “Besides, Hermione is the secret keeper. They’d have to ask her, not Neville or Ginny or Luna.”