inkspills

Title: You Only Had To Ask
Author/Artist: realitiedout
Rating: PG (??)
Word count: ~4500
Summary: Nineteen years later, and Harry Potter needs a favour (or two) from Draco Malfoy.
Notes: Written for leochi, for the 2008 hds_beltane fest. The request was “Post-epilogue. Slow development of a friendship that turns unexpectedly into love (H/D). Working together, kids may be involved (friendship Al/Scorp), wives disinterested or having affairs of their own.” I think they’re all there, however loosely. ;p
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

“But what if I don’t make Slytherin?”

Draco looks down at his son who is fiddling with the sleeves of his new school robes. “It wouldn’t matter,” he replies at the same time his wife says, “I’m sure you will.”

Draco shoots her a look. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything else, and Draco turns back to Scorpius. “It wouldn’t matter,” he repeats. “Why do you want to be in Slytherin?”

He doesn’t miss the slight movement to his right, but he chooses to ignore Astoria, for now. Scorpius hesitates before saying, “Well, grandfather owled me a couple of nights ago…”

Draco feels himself frowning. “Ah, I see. And do you wish to be in Slytherin?”

Again, Scorpius pauses, and instead of answering, he says, “But, father, you were in Slytherin. And mom, too.”

Draco nods. “Yes, we were, and we enjoyed it,” For the most part, he thinks to himself, “but that’s because we were suited for it.”

It is Scorpius’s turn to frown. “So I might not be suited for Slytherin?” He is silent for a moment, and Draco observes as his son scrunches up his nose. At that moment, like many others in the past month, he wishes that he’d spent more time with his only child.

Finally, Scorpius nods. “I think I understand.” And then, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world, he says, “C’mon father. Help me with the luggage. I want to make sure that I get a window seat. Didn’t you say that—“ He breaks off, staring at a boisterous group of wizards and witches a few paces away.

Draco follows his gaze, and when he sees the object of his son’s fascination, he is not surprised. At that moment, Harry Potter looks up, as if aware that he is being watched, searches the platform, and catches Draco’s eyes.

Draco notes the changes in the other man, takes in broad shoulders, the well-worn yet tailored robes, the self-assured manner. He then realizes that he’s been staring, and gives Potter a quick nod. The other man nods back, and then the two turn back to their families.

Draco ignores Astoria’s knowing look.

~ * ~ * ~

The train is moving away, and Draco can no longer see the waving arm of his son. He sighs, wishing that Astoria is still with him, so that they might share in this rather depressing experience as father and mother, together. But she had left the moment they’d ensured that Scorpius had a perfect window seat.

“I have an appointment,” she had said.

Draco hadn’t bothered to ask for further details.

“Really pulls at you, doesn’t it?” a voice says from behind.

Draco turns to see none other than Harry Potter, looking a little unsure, yet strangely determined. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he says blandly.

Potter shrugs. “This is the second time for me, and it doesn’t feel any easier, letting them go.”

Draco, of course, knows what he’s talking about, but he decides that he would rather have sex with Astoria than talk to Harry Potter about feelings. Instead, he says, “Where’s your little entourage?”

“My little—oh, you mean Ginny and the others? They all had appointments to get to.”

Draco smirks when Potter says appointments, and he takes a moment to daydream about a world in which Potter’s wife is occupied by numerous such appointments. It is a satisfying thought, though even he knows how improbable such a reality would be. He knows he’s smirking, and ignores Potter’s confused gaze. “And what about you, Head Auror extraordinaire—don’t you have your own appointments to keep?”

The other man shakes his head, slowly. “Er, no. Not really. I pretty much get to make my own schedule. Yourself?”

“Just heading to the office. Have to check on the staff, you know, before things hit the press.”

“The office?” Potter asks.

Draco rolls his eyes. “The Daily Prophet. You do know we bought it up, right? I’m the chief financier, well, along with Astoria, but she could care less about the business.”

Potter looks flummoxed. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with Rita Skeeter getting sacked a few years ago, would it?”

Draco thinks that Potter must be joking, until he realizes that the other man is actually waiting for a response. “Merlin, Potter, I can’t believe you’re Head Auror.”

Potter turns red, and chooses to ignore him, gesturing instead at the small package under Draco’s arm. “Is that headed for the press?”

Draco looks down. In the excitement of the day, he’s forgotten about the book, and now, he’s not sure if he wants someone like Potter to know. He decides to play it cautious. “No, actually, this is something else. A hobby of mine. You ever heard of Cadr O’Yomlaf?” At Potter’s baffled expression, Draco fights back a smile. The man is hopeless. “He’s been topping the bestsellers list seventeen weeks running. The Prophet wants to interview him in person, but he’s adamant about maintaining his privacy.” He shows Potter the package. “This is his book. I finished it not too long ago. It’s yours if you want it.”

Potter hesitates before taking the package from him. “Er, thanks, Malfoy. Ginny’s always saying I should read something besides Quidditch magazines.” He flips open the cover, and glances at Draco in surprise. “It’s signed. And dedicated.”

Draco smirks. “I did say it was a hobby of mine, didn’t I? Let’s just say I’m very dedicated to his work.”

Noting the time on the station’s clock, Draco begins to move to the nearest designated Apparition point. Potter follows him, still looking unsure. “I don’t know if I’ll have time to read it—things can get hectic pretty suddenly at the department.”

Draco feels strangely irritated at Potter’s continued hedging. “Look, it doesn’t matter to me whether you read it or not. Like I said, you can keep it. I have another copy at home. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He pulls out his wand.

Potter bites his lower lip. “Wait,” he blurts. “How do I return it?”

Draco shrugs. “You’re Head Auror. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

And then he Disapparates.

~ * ~ * ~

Seven months later, Draco sits in his office at the Daily Prophet, staring at a blank spot at the corner of his desk. It still surprises him, the odd feeling of almost-disappointment when he thinks about the book that should be there. It must have been some last glimmer of hope, that day on Platform 9¾. After all, it had been Potter who came over, Potter who initiated conversation. He tells himself he has every right to feel almost-disappointment that Potter hasn’t been in touch since. He tells himself he shouldn’t feel anything at all.

Draco is still staring at the spot when his secretary knocks on his door.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” she says. “There’s a man here wanting to speak with you.”

Draco doesn’t look up. “I’m not expecting anyone right now. Tell him to call ahead next time. Schedule him in. I’m busy. Now. I mean, I’m busy now.”

There is a moment of silence. “Ah, well, sir, that is, he’s…” Draco frowns to himself. He doesn’t recall his secretary ever acting the fool. “He’s Harry Potter, sir.”

Oh.

Draco finally glances up. “Harry Potter? Does he think that just because he’s Harry Potter, he can see Draco Malfoy whenever he wants? Well, please tell Mr. Potter that Mr. Malfoy is unavailable right now, and ask him if he might like to schedule an appointment.”

The woman bustles out, and Draco sags against his chair.

A few minutes later, she returns. Harry Potter has declined to schedule an appointment, she says, but he’ll pay Draco Malfoy a visit at his home.

Draco, for his part, is unable to keep from smiling.

~ * ~ * ~

Friday evening, Draco tumbles out of the fireplace in his study to find his wife drinking tea with Harry Potter. Astoria smiles slyly as she welcomes him home, while Potter quickly sets his teacup back onto its saucer.

“Draco, darling, look who’s come to pay us a visit.”

Draco glares at his wife, tossing his coat onto the back of an armchair. Her smile grows wider. “We’ve been having the most interesting conversation. Did you know that Harry is something of a book connoisseur? He’s been telling me about a most fascinating book.”

Potter is turning red, and he clears his throat, attempting to interrupt her. “Well, ah, actually, I wouldn’t call—“

And suddenly, Draco knows what his wife is talking about, what they’ve been talking about. Overpowered with an unfamiliar feeling of gratefulness, he strides over to Astoria and gives her a light kiss on her cheeks. “Have I ever told you how lucky I am that father arranged for me to marry you?”

Astoria arches an eyebrow at him. “No, but I’m sure I’ll be happy to hear more. Later.” She stands up. “Well, have a good evening, gentlemen. I have an appointment to keep. Harry, it was lovely seeing you again.”

Potter stands up, taking her outstretched hand. “Thank you for the tea. Tell Daphne I said hello.”

Astoria laughs. “I will, but I don’t think she’ll care for that.” She leaves, quietly closing the door behind her.

Draco glances at the tray of biscuits and scones. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’ll need a bit more than that.”

Potter starts. “Oh, right. Of course. No, I don’t mind at all.”

For the next few minutes, Draco deals with the mundane details of ordering a dinner for himself. He takes the time to collect his thoughts, and when the House Elf finally leaves, he feels much steadier. Settling into an armchair across from Potter, he asks, “So, what brings you here?”

Potter clears his throat. “Right, then. Ah, you’ve heard about the Ministry’s plans for the celebrations?”

“I own the Daily Prophet, remember? Of course I know.”

“Yes, well, we’ve been keeping something special under wraps, and we’re finally ready to go public. This year, the Ministry wants to bring back Bealtainn.”

Draco frowns. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Potter looks gleeful as he begins to explain. “Apparently, it was an old Wizarding festival celebrating summer, purification, life. Traditionally, it’s celebrated on the first of May.”

Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I know what Bealtainn is, Potter. My question is what does it have to do with the Ministry’s plans for this year’s celebrations?”

“Sooo, Voldemort was defeated on the second.”

Draco puts two and two together, and feels rather stupid for not realizing the connection earlier. “Right, I get it. A bit of a hassle, if you ask me, but the Ministry’s been spearheading some strange things lately.” Draco pauses, and a thought occurs to him. “I suppose the centaurs and leprechauns will appreciate the gesture—they’ve been petitioning to reinstate the festival for centuries. Shacklebolt must be gearing up another election campaign. Which still doesn’t tell me why you decided to drop by.”

Potter looks as if he wants to argue the point, but takes a sip of his tea instead. Draco is grateful, although he makes sure not to show it. He doesn’t wish to argue with Potter, not yet.

“The thing is,” Potter says, “There’s only about two weeks left until the celebrations. We haven’t much promotional material prepared, so we figured it would be best to feature a series of articles in the Prophet, everyday for the five days running up to Bealtainn.”

Draco stares at Potter. “You mean, a feature series?”

Potter nods. “I told the planning committee I knew someone at the Prophet who could make it happen. That would be you, of course.”

Draco doesn’t know whether to laugh or yell. The extent of Potter’s ignorance about such things is astonishing. Gryffindor to the core, he thinks. “Potter,” he says slowly. “You don’t just say, ‘I want to put in a feature series,’ and expect everything to fall into place. We have to talk with our advertisers; research and editing needs to be done to ensure the articles’ quality; and the layout editor needs time to organize the material. What you’re proposing is nearly impossible.”

Potter pounces. “You say nearly, but it is possible?”

“Possible, if you already have the articles written up, and if they’re well-researched, then maybe—maybe!—we can do something. Of course, that’s also assuming the Ministry is prepared to pay a hefty amount. There’s absolutely no way we can locate the necessary advertisers to support a feature series on such short notice.”

Potter is almost bouncing out of his seat. “Of course, of course. The research is all done—Hermione was the team leader, you know—and the budget is huge. Great, fantastic, thank you. I’ll go tell Shacklebolt right now. He should still be at his office.”

Draco stands up as Potter prepares to leave. There is still some unfinished business, and he refuses to let the opportunity go to waste. “Before you head off, Astoria mentioned something about a book?” he says casually. “What was that about?”

Potter pauses in the middle of pulling on his coat. “Oh, that. Actually, it’s funny you should mention it. We were talking about that book you lent me in September. It’s taken me awhile, but I’m about halfway through now. Astoria found out I had a copy, so we started talking about it.”

“A-nd?” Draco prompts.

The other man shrugs. “Frankly, I was a little surprised that you would read something like that.”

“You mean, because the male protagonist is gay?” Draco asks cautiously.

Harry looks up from buttoning his coat. “What? No. No, of course not. Merlin, what do you take me for? After all, Dumbledore was—well, that’s beside the point. I meant because the book is so muggle.”

Draco bursts out laughing, but it is a laugh of relief, to let out the tension that has been building up inside of him, an unknown pressure that began digging at his chest from the day he’d lent Potter his book.

Potter shoots him an odd look. “Anyway, it’s been an interesting read. For some reason, I feel like it’s about me, but that’s just crazy, right?”

Draco suddenly feels short of breath. “Definitely crazy,” he agrees, handing the other man a jar of Floo powder.

“I’ll try to return your book the next time we meet,” Potter says as he reaches into the jar.

“There’s no rush. Take your time.”

Potter nods in thanks. “I’ll be in touch.”

Draco watches as the other man vanishes in a burst of green flames. He wonders, belatedly, if it’s the protagonist that Potter identifies with.

~ * ~ * ~

Sunday afternoon, Draco is in his study when he receives an urgent Floo call from his secretary. He knows it must be an emergency, because he has ordered his staff never to communicate with him on Sundays. It is a little difficult to discern his secretary’s expression through the flames, but Draco imagines she looks agitated: sparks leap sporadically from the edges of her eyes, giving the impression that she is either frowning or holding back tears. Draco wishes, not for the first time, that video conferencing had caught on. He makes a mental note to get his Muggle correspondent to get started on an article. After all, what is the point of holding an almost-monopoly over the media if one doesn’t take advantage of it once in a while?

“It’s Harry Potter again, sir!”

Draco frowns. “What about him?”

“He’s here, at the office, and he wants the first article of the Bealtainn series printed in tonight’s evening edition.”

“That’s simply not possible. Tell him no.”

“I already did, sir, but he won’t listen to reason.” The woman definitely sounds on the verge of tears. Draco though, finds it difficult to feel sorry for her: Scorpius will be home for a rare visit, and Draco has no wish to deal with hysterical staff. He is about to respond, scathingly, when her face flickers. “Sir, sir! You cannot come in here. Mr. Potter, please—“

She is cut off, and her face is quickly replaced by Harry Potter’s. Draco takes a deep breath. He must remain calm.

“Afternoon, Malfoy. Enjoying your day off?”

“Any day when I don’t have to deal with you is enjoyable, Potter.”

“Haha, funny. Listen, Malfoy, there’s been a change of plans: Shacklebolt likes the idea of the feature series so much that he wants another five articles printed about The Second War, for a total of ten articles over the next ten days. We can’t do that unless we get the first of these Bealtainn articles printed tonight.”

Draco’s laugh comes out more a bark. “Potter, if I know my staff, they’re running this evening’s edition off the press as we speak. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Yes, there is!” Potter insists. “You own the paper. Just say the word and your staff will print an insert. Or something.”

Draco grits his teeth. “Or something? Do you even read the Prophet, Potter? We’re already running an exclusive on the Second War, sponsored by Nimbus. If I add yours to the mix, I’ll be violating half a dozen clauses in our advertising contract with the company.”

“Advertising contracts?” Potter’s brows furrow. “I still don’t understand what the problem is.”

“The problem,” Draco grounds out, “is that I’m running a business, and unless the Ministry is willing to pay the one hundred thousand galleons that Nimbus will no doubt demand for contract violation, my answer is no.”

There is a brief moment of silence before Potter’s image erupts in sparks. “Fine, then. I guess I was wrong. You haven’t changed at all.” And then Potter’s face disappears from the fireplace.

He leaves Draco seething. He storms around the room once, twice. He is halfway through the third circuit when he grabs the jar of Floo powder from a side table. Before he is engulfed in the green flames, the portrait of Severus Snape hanging above the fireplace calls down to him: “I had no idea you were so easy, Draco.”

Draco makes a mental note to himself to replace the portrait with something more agreeable.

~ * ~ * ~

Five hours later, Draco is seated next to Scorpius, who can barely contain his excitement. Astoria sits across from her son, and next to her is Harry Potter. Draco wonders, again, how that happened.

“Father didn’t say anything about having you over for dinner, Mr. Potter!” Scorpius is saying around a mouthful of pudding.

Potter replies cautiously. “Well, I’m a little surprised myself, actually.” He glances at Draco out of the corner of his eyes. “But I suppose it’s natural, seeing as how you’re such good friends with my Al.”

Scorpius nods vigorously. “Oh, yeah, best friends. It was weird, though, cuz I didn’t even really notice him until that Quidditch accident.”

Draco places a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Scorpius, am I to understand that you are friends with Potter’s son?”

Scorpius looks up, eyes wide. “Didn’t mom tell you? I owled her a few weeks back. There was a huge accident on the Quidditch field, and Albus and I got to help some of the players to the hospital wing.”

Draco turns to glare at Astoria, who looks back at him, brows arched. “It must have slipped my mind.” She waves a hand in the air. “But that’s old news. Let’s talk about something less tedious. Harry, how is that book going?”

Potter’s brows furrow. “What—oh, you mean that book by that O’Molaf chap?”

“O’Yomlaf,” Draco corrects him, automatically.

“Right, O’Yomlaf. Actually, I just finished it the other night. Nothing going on at the office, and with Ginny off with the Harpies…” Potter trails off. He looks uncomfortable.

“Right,” Draco says. “I forgot. She used to play for them. And I think she was the Quidditch correspondent before I bought up the Prophet?” Potter nods, but doesn’t say anything. “Soo, she’s gone for the weekend to catch up with some old team-mates?” Draco doesn’t want to appear too interested in Potter’s life, but he is curious as to what could possibly drive the Weaslette to leave her husband’s side. From what he recalls of his school years, she saw stars just at the mention of Potter’s name.

To his surprise, it is Scorpius who answers. “Oh, no. Albus told me that his mom is off training with her old team. He says she wants to get on the roster again, maybe for the next season. We think she’s a bit old for professional Quidditch, but maybe it’s different for all-women teams. Isn’t that right, Mr. Potter?”

Potter is looking down at his plate, and his response is muffled. “Yeah, that’s right. Not sure when she’ll be back, but it’s something she’s wanted to get back into for a while now.” Draco waits for Potter to continue, but he stays silent.

Astoria coughs delicately. “So Harry, what did you think of the book, now that you’ve had time to finish it?”

Potter looks relieved at the diversion. “It’s interesting that you should ask, because I was talking to Hermione about it, just the other day.” He turns to Draco. “Remember how I said I felt the book was about me? Well, I’ve certainly changed my mind! I’ve had my share of drama, but this boy—his friends die, his home is invaded by a murderer, he’s forced into a loveless marriage. I mean, just about everything bad that could happen in a person’s lifetime happens to this character.”

“So you found it unrealistic?” Draco asks.

“Noo, not exactly. Just—overwhelming? Tragic? There was this scene, when he realized that he would have to…” Potter’s voice trails off, and he gives Draco a strange look. Draco is sure that his face reveals nothing, but to be on the safe side, he lifts his teacup to his lips. He refuses to break eye contact with Potter.

“Yes?” Astoria prods.

“Well,” Potter says, slowly. “It just occurred to me… I mean, is it possible… The idea is outrageous, really…”

The conversation comes to a standstill.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Draco observes his son playing with his mango pudding, oblivious to the conversation of the adults around him. Quite suddenly, Draco feels tired. There have been so many moments, watching his son grow in the last few years, that he wishes his life had turned out different, that he had been born just a few years later—five, ten, the actual number doesn’t matter, as long as it’s later. Perhaps, then, he wouldn’t now be sitting across the table from Harry Potter, tense with the effort of schooling his features into a relaxed, blank mask.

Potter takes a breath, clears his throat, opens his mouth, closes it. He finally decides on scraping his chair back, and stands up. “I’m sorry, I must be going. I just realized—“

“No worries,” Draco interrupts. He doesn’t wish to hear Potter’s excuses. “Auror business, I’m sure, or some such. But let me show you to my study—it’s got the only fireplace connected to the Floo network.”

Potter nods readily, and then he flushes, as if something has just occurred to him. “Ah, actually, I’ll just show myself out. The front door, I mean.” He nearly trips over his robes as he stumbles around the dining table.

Afraid, Potter, to be in the same room as me, alone?

Out loud, Draco says, “Of course. This way,” he gestures for Potter to follow him.

Behind him, Scorpius calls out, “See you again, Mr. Potter!”

~ * ~ * ~

The first of May arrives, and Draco finds himself strolling the grounds of Hogwarts. He’d been surprised when it was revealed that the Bealtainn celebrations would be held at the school, and even more surprised when he’d learnt that McGonagall had agreed to suspend classes for the one day so that students might participate in the festivities. According to interviews, she remembers her great-great grandparents’ stories about celebrating Bealtainn on school grounds. Draco decides that he will have to speak with his old professor. It is simply unacceptable to disrupt the school year for such frivolous reasons.

At that moment, he sees a couple of witches in Auror robes heading in his direction, and he quickly makes a detour. He realizes he is being silly, but Potter hasn’t been in touch since that disastrous dinner, and even now, Draco does not wish to have any dealings with Aurors.

He continues walking, without direction, and the sounds of the festivities fade behind him. So caught up is he in his thoughts, that he does not register his surroundings until he hears the crunching of heavy footsteps over dead twigs and leaves. He stops, looks around, and realizes that he is on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. The sound of the footsteps grow louder, and still, Draco cannot make out who or what it is. He slowly pulls out his wand.

Seconds later, Potter stumbles out through the trees, panting, face red from exertion. Draco lowers his wand, but is at a loss when Potter scowls at him. “Why haven’t you been to see me?”

Draco raises an eyebrow, and replies with a calmness that he does not feel. “Was I supposed to?”

Potter pulls out his wand, and Draco flinches instinctively, but the other man is not aiming at him. No, he is spelling something through the air. C-A-D-R-O-Y-O-M-L-A-F. He then makes a fancy little flourish, flicking his wand through the letters, and they rearrange themselves to spell something entirely different. Draco closes his eyes.

“Look at me, Malfoy.” Draco ignores him. He hears Potter sigh, hears him say, quietly, “Fine. Have it your way.”

Sound of footsteps. Something solid, heavy, is put into his hands. Draco opens his eyes, looks down. It is his book.

“Open it,” Potter says.

Draco shakes his head. No, he doesn’t want to. But he is opening the book anyway. On the inside cover is the familiar handwriting, his handwriting, the inscription written hastily, the book originally intended for his editor’s niece: To my number one fan. It is a line he has written for many others.

The words underneath, however, are new. They are not his.

“You only had to ask,” Draco reads. He stares at the page.

“Rita Skeeter,” Potter says, and Draco finally looks up. “You shouldn’t have fired her. She got the basics right, though the details definitely needed work.”

Draco knows that there is some connection between what Potter is saying, and what he has written, but he cannot wrap his mind around it. The other man smiles crookedly. “Yes, it happened at Fred Weasley’s wedding, and yes, Harry Potter had a bit of a tangle with a member of the Weasley family; but no, it wasn’t with the bride-to-be, and it most certainly wasn’t with a certain married lady of French origins.” He pauses, looks Draco in the eye. “It was with Charlie Weasley.”

Draco cannot believe what he is hearing, and yet, Harry Potter stands before him, a wry smile ghosting his face. It is Harry Potter who takes another step toward him, so close now, that Draco can feel his breath against his ear, his eyelashes, his cheeks. “So you see,” Potter whispers, and Draco can feel the words against his lips. “You didn’t need to write an entire book. You only had to ask.”

End