𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

Part 8

1.

He didn’t sign up for this. Never, never would Draco have agreed to follow Potter through the Floo if he knew exactly what “The Burrow” was and that there would be a shack full of red-headed inbreeding Weasleys along with it.

He sits at the table and seethes in Potter’s direction, casting glowers and scowls and thinking, Potter is NEVER going to fuck me again after this mess. He doesn’t like the looks the Weasel’s family gives him, appraising him with their filthy eyes, watching him hold Abraxas over his shoulder and whispering. Draco knows full well what those twins are muttering about, and full well what that dumpy Weasel mother is staring at with a frown.

However, he does have a certain satisfaction when he watches Potter and the Weasley sister embrace awkwardly as she casts Draco baleful looks all evening, especially over the pudding when the baby starts to cry and Pyrrha is growing tired and irritable and trying to crawl all over Potter’s lap.

Because Draco has taken this from her. He smirks her way, eyeing her carefully as she dishes up heaps of cream onto the steaming puddings. You wanted Potter and you wanted his babies and poor, trashy slags like you didn’t get to him first.

But he still is furious with Potter for bringing him here. The food. The strange, mouldy smell of poverty and neglect, all the bloody Weasley jumpers, everywhere, multiplied by a thousand Weasleys all wearing them, and now Potter and his children have their own set.

He’s glad he wasn’t given one. He would have used an Incendio the moment it was safe to do spells again.

His chest aches and he’s tired and wants to go home to feed the baby, but Potter doesn’t shut his chatting and there is absolutely no way in hell Draco is going to wander off somewhere in this shack and unbutton his shirt. The press hurts, like his chest will cave in and his nipples will explode and he sits, grinding his teeth. If Potter were closer to him, he would kick him under the table, but he has moved to sit closer to the Weasel and Granger and the Weasley girl, who laugh and talk in a familiar way that Draco could never share.

And doesn’t want to share either.

There is spew crusting to his shoulder. He feels as cheap and dirty as the Weasel family must. A staticky wireless plays songs in the background and the Weasel woman washes dishes, clanging pots and generally making Draco’s head pound.

Goddamn it, Potter, take me home!

When Potter does announce they ought to go, it’s because Pyrrha has fallen asleep on one of the overstuffed garish chesterfields. Draco wants to hose her down in the bath at home, in case she has some Weasley disease, or lice, but Potter simply carries her up to bed and tucks her in and Draco is far too busy unbuttoning his robes and shirt.

He sighs when the baby’s warm lips wrap around his nipple, and lies back on the couch, wanting to sleep himself. Over the sounds of the baby slurping, he can hear Potter’s footsteps shuffling back down the stairs. Draco attempts to drape his open shirt over his chest because he knows Potter will start watching him and he’s absolutely pissed off enough that he has no desire for Potter to watch. That was a privilege he no longer is welcome to, not after dragging Draco off to that Weasley infestation.

“What is your problem?” Potter asks, leaning in the doorway.

Draco sends him a glare, then ignores him as he walks into the room and sits down in a chair next to Draco, leaning on the arm of the couch.

“Fuck off,” he hisses.

“You could try to be civil, you know,” Potter says, his eyes on the baby. Then he stares at Draco, blinking behind his lenses. The lights of the streetlamps through the window are reflected on the sheen.