The Scorpion Always Stings

ϟ June 2004

June 2004

When Harry awoke, it was to the sound of the baby.

He put a hand over Ginny's shoulder as she started to stir.

"I'll get him," he said softly. She murmured something under her breath and rolled away from him. Harry leaned in to kiss her gently on the nape of her neck where a cluster of his favourite moles nestled together prettily.

"Love you," he whispered.

The nursery was not as brightly-lit as they'd initially envisioned it but one could only do so much with the magic, it being Grimmauld place and all. The curtains were made of sheer cotton, a soft white colour with patterns of little brown bears. Hermione had picked them out, saying the bears matched James' eyes. The cot where he slept had been fashioned by Ron and George. It'd been uneven on one leg so they had to shove a wad of balled-up tissues under the foot.

Harry lifted James out of the cot and the mewling cries immediately stopped. The flushed, crinkled little face - four months old today - blinked up at him in a sort of marvelling wonder, as if he had never seen such a creature before.

Harry began to pace around the room with James, who seemed to be content now that he had gotten what he wanted and now had a miniscule pinkie greedily wrapped around Harry's thumb.

All the older parents, well-versed on the nightmares of newborns, had warned him of the tiredness, the fatigue, that descends on you so abruptly that no amount of preparation can make it any more bearable. Maybe his war days had trained him well for Harry woke up absolutely fine - eager, in fact - to tend to his son.

He had imagined this life a thousand times over. How many times had he dreamt of the domestic bliss that would overtake him the day he married Ginny? How many times since he married her had he kept trudging on, seeking it still? Now here it was. Here he was.

James was asleep again within minutes so Harry placed him gently back into the cot.

He went downstairs and brewed himself a cup of coffee. A glance at the clock told him it was nearly 10:45 A.M. Today would've been his monthly monitoring visit to Draco if he hadn't been on paternity leave. Harry sat down and began to drink, enjoying the sting of heat against his tongue. Ginny complained about it, saying one day he'd get such a scalding shock from it that he'd never drink another hot beverage again out of fear. But he didn't mind.

His eyes wondered back to the clock and his thoughts, inevitably, as he now was able to admit, to Malfoy. It was a Sunday today so Malfoy would be at home. Well - not that it mattered. Malfoy was always at home. Inherited-wealth-pricks didn't have to work.

You are an inherited-wealth-prick, a small voice reminded Harry.

Well, that was different. He didn't own a manor. Malfoy was ten times wealthier than him, anyhow.

He rubbed a finger against his chin, in deep thought. The observations came to him in flashes; Malfoy lived such a structured life which had surprised him before but made sense now. When you're under house arrest for almost a decade, routines prevent you from going insane. He was always gardening when Harry came - in slippers, in wellies, once in his formal dinner shoes even, which he seemed thoroughly embarrassed to be caught in. He must've forgotten it was a monitoring visit day.

Harry smothered his smile.

"What the fuck are you staring at, Potter?" Malfoy had spat. Harry wasn't a dickhead; if he was a dickhead, he would've recorded 'verbal abuse towards Ministry Official' on his monitoring sheet and that would've slapped Malfoy with a 500 galleon fine and a bad track record. Instead, he'd just giggled.

"You sound like a ponce." Malfoy had rolled his eyes, glancing down subconsciously at his shoes, then kicking them off.

"At least I don't look like one."

"Keep telling yourself that, Potty. Those Auror robes have a reputation, you know."

"For looking fucking cool? I agree."

"If by 'fucking cool', you mean some poof would pay you handsomely for them. Sure."

Harry had cringed. "I see you're well-versed on Muggle slurs too, Malfoy."

He'd flashed Harry an unaffected smile. "Who would I be if not a well-rounded bigot?"

Harry had instantly regretted laughing at that. Really, he was supposed to appear neutral in all conversations with convicts. But nobody needed to find out.

His mind jolted back to the present. Again he cast a look at the clock.

10.57 AM.

Malfoy would've probably come back into the manor by now. He always left a slightly smudged trail of mud across the floor of the foyer. His elves wouldn't be happy. But with Hermione's new injunctions soon to be in motion, Harry knew Malfoy would soon have to invest in a mop and bucket.

Astoria Greengrass would not be home—she hardly was. Harry felt slightly uncomfortable, and he wondered if perhaps she was having an affair. Such speculations were beyond his pay grade and certainly too invasive, but he couldn't help but wonder. He couldn't imagine Malfoy not knowing.

He couldn't even imagine Malfoy caring. He suspected, deep down, that Malfoy wasn't remotely interested in his wife. Or...women, in general.

Harry let out a small gasp and wiped quickly at his bare thigh. Some of the coffee had dribbled out of his mouth and scalded him.

"Fuck's sake," he muttered. He got up and placed the coffee on the sink.

Then, he heard the mewling cries of the baby again.

Relieved to be pulled away from his thoughts, Harry bounded back up the stairs to the nursery.

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