𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

Part 7

1.

Harry has barely filled out the last of the forms and owled them off before the first letters start to arrive at his Ministry desk. He has stayed late at work, in order to have a small moment’s peace and to finish the registry forms and then, as he pulls his coat on, an owl zooms through the doorway.

“Bugger,” he says.

The Ministry is dark, the hallways empty and he is the last of the novices to leave. He has only six months left before he’ll be finished with the Auror training. It will be nice not to have practical field exams on Fridays and ridiculous amounts of paperwork dumped on him by senior Aurors. It will also be nice to be able to have paid holidays in the summer.

The owl lands on his desk in a flurry of papers. It stares at him with wide yellow eyes and sighs, if owls could sigh, that is.

“How do they find out so fast?” he mutters, taking the letter from the owl. He barely has cracked the seal before the shouting starts.

“WHO IS SHE? WHO IS THAT SLAG WHO-”

He closes it quickly and taps his wand on the seal, silencing it.

The Underground is a long ride home, followed by two changeovers by bus. Harry stares out the window at the bright city lights, glowing Christmas trees and wreaths draped over the sidestreets, pedestrians and shoppers rushing along the pavements. His eyes droop. He’s tired; he can’t sleep much anymore. The baby cries a lot, a lot more than Pyrrha ever did. He’s irritable and restless and Harry envies Ron and Hermione and the sweet silence of their flat in Devonshire.

When he gets home, he feels a stab of guilt at his own self-pity. Malfoy stares at him blankly from the couch, his eyes glazed over, with heavy purple bags under them. His skin is tinged grey and his hair limp. Harry sees him sigh and pat the baby, who is draped over his shoulder, whimpering.

“How was he today?” Harry asks. He puts his coat in the closet and walks over, taking the baby from Malfoy. The baby starts to cry, so Harry jiggles his shoulders and walks into the kitchen, bouncing slightly.

Malfoy follows. “How is he everyday? He doesn’t bloody shut up to let me sleep.” His voice is hollow and drained.

“Where’s Pyrrha?”

“In bed.” Malfoy sits down at the table, where Harry sees food sitting in pots, cold and congealed. Potatoes and fried steaks and something green and mushy in a pot on the stove, just as cold.

“Did you make supper?” Harry asks.

Malfoy shrugs and continues, as though he never left off, “I didn’t know when you would be home. I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t know if you’d bring food or not.”

“Sorry, late night.”

Malfoy shrugs again.

Harry heats his food up manually, in the microwave, which makes Malfoy sneer, though his attempt is half-hearted because the baby won’t stop crying and Malfoy finally takes the baby from Harry and mutters something about hungry and leaves the room.

Harry doesn’t need to guess where Malfoy has gone. Two children and not once has he seen Malfoy feed them. He knows Malfoy does, sometimes Malfoy will even be in another room and Harry will hear muffled noises, but he has never seen it. He’s curious, he’s envious of the baby, who touches Malfoy eagerly. Harry hasn’t touched him since before he was born.