Frisco's like nowhere.

mood: accomplished

Title: Then You Grow Up
Chapter: 2
Author: liaisonsgalore   (Me)
Genre: Drama/Romance
Rating: R+/-
Length: 2,792 words
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Vulgarity, Depressing subject matters, Post Deathly Hallows
Summary: He's loved, he's loss. Draco's attempts at affection aren't helpful and he unintentionally pushes all away. But when a relationship with the Weasel springs up, Draco finds that maybe a low-class be-freckled redhead is just the kind of remedy he needs.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything Harry Potter related, nor do I make money off of my fan work. However, the characters Cypress and Craft are of my own.
A/N: I apologize for the gap in my updates.

By the time winter came rolling along, Draco had managed to liven up a bit. Instead of living about in the study, he lolled around the living room with his feet resting a top the couch’s arm whilst he indulge himself with the pleasure of reading muggle novels. It was enthralling the things these muggles would write and Draco could seldom escape the small printed text that bound him to discover the meaning behind them. He found the way wizard’s, and creatures in general, were perceived highly amusing and often fell asleep reading some strange fantasy tale.

            Draco had ceased to step into the study for nearly a week; a definite achievement considering his normal busied work schedule. Draco was considered a criminal from the very day he crept out his mother’s womb and shouted “Boo!” and so it was quite difficult for him to win a case. He supposes it didn’t help that he was a criminal lawyer either.

            While approaching the end of a slightly disturbing yet captivating tale of vampires by Poppy Z, a familiar burst of sound disrupted him.

            “Good morning Master Malfoy.” Squeaked Craft with her body bent low and a single fringe of hair, in fact the only piece of hair, dangling close to the floor.

            “Hello Craft.” Draco stared at her pathetic stance and remembered how as an adolescent he felt superior when Dobby had bowed and brutally harped upon himself with every mistake made. Yet now, the sight only had the pleasure of saddening him.

“You can get up now.” And she did as told. Her posture was hunched slightly and she leaned a bit to the right. “Speak quickly.”

            “Of course Master Malfoy.” She drew in as much air as her lungs would allow and began. “The misses had summoned me about an hour ago to get her breakfast: bacon, waffles, eggs, syrup, wi-…”

“Skip that.”

            “Yes, sir, of course. About ten minutes ago she summoned me again to give you a message. She says for me to tell you that today is the day Young Master Scorpius returns from Hogwarts for the break of winter. And then she says for me to say that you have gots to be nice and pay him some attention. She says that. Miss Malfoy says that she will go at three and I am to come with her.”

            “Wait. You’re going?” He was not mad, simply shocked, but Craft did not seem to understand.

            “Oh no! No-no-no-no-no-no-no! I have angered Master -agh- Malfoy. Craft is -agh- sorry!” She squeaked, as she bashed her head repeatedly on the floor.

            “Bloody hell! Stop that!” Craft was crouched on the ground, her face no more than a half inch from further injury; droplets of blood trickled on the rug. “Go with Cypress, okay? But before you leave,” he sighed, “clean up this bloody mess and um, wash your face.”

            She nodded swiftly, her dark dingy face red with shame. She left momentarily before returning with cleaning supplies and some seltzer; she gently rubbed the small droplets of blood from the carpet.

He fell asleep shortly after Craft’s departure only to find him jolted by an abrupt awakening in what seemed only a few minutes later.

            “Mother told me to say hello.” Groggy and now slightly irritated, Draco stared unmoved by his son’s arrival; a familiar look was in his eyes. Draco knew those eyes, he had them and his father had them.

            “A family trait that never dies.” He mumbled, a small maddening smirk riding the left side of his face.

            “Sorry, what was that?”

            Draco didn’t answer and instead continued on with his reading. The pattering of Scorpius’ feet echoed down the hall; Draco ignored the slight pang in his heart. It was late that afternoon that Ferral, his Great-Eared Nightjar, flew in- through some open window he supposed- and perched herself on the shoulder of the couch. A parcel was attached to Ferral’s leg and as soon as it was removed, the enveloped twisted and folded it self into a mouth like shape. Draco knew who it was from and he knew what it would say. It floated there silent and he felt compelled to shift uncomfortably and ­run his hand through his hair.

“I know you have yet to see him Malfoy. You ignore his untimely demise almost as much as you ignore your own son.” There was a sizeable pause and the folded envelope appeared to frown. “Malfoy, I won’t bother you about . . . this again. I just wish you could cease this stubborn front you put on and visit; though I’m sure he’d never admit it, I’m quite sure he would have appreciated your company. Not many else go to see him you know?”

“That’s because no one knows what actually happened, you useless twat!” Infuriated, he reached out to shred the envelope, but it gracefully fluttered away and proceeded to self-mutilate; the scattered bits of it floated gracefully to the floor. He fumed at the slow pace at which the paper fell. He started for the stairs, he could feel his temples pulsating, signaling the early signs of a headache. He would change and leave.

The messages would never stop. He has been consistent with them for 11 years; surely he would not choose now to stop pestering the dormant blonde. At his closet, he summoned a heavy black cloak to shroud his existence during his reluctant travel.

It was a sure shot from his bland yet safe place of dwelling to crowded streets to a place of unfamiliar memories. He inwardly grimaced, wondering why the old fool had to die in such an unattractive wastleland. He walked down the stairs with such slowness, he seemed nearly inert. 

“Father?” Draco stopped, if he had not been immobile already that is. “Are you going out? . . . Can I come?” Young and timid, Scorpius padded down the stairs next to the pallor figure lurched over the railing.

Unexpected was his kin’s request to accompany him, and unexpected was his reply. “Hogsmeade and ye-…ss.” His vocal cords restricted as he force-delivered his approval. Draco carried on down the steps, Scorpius followed. He was going to apparate, but wisely decided against it. He was not in the right state of mind to carry the two of them safely. They walked to the fireplace in the entertainment room. “You go first. Elaine’s Sideshow Entertainer.” His kin stepped into the elegant hole in the wall and in seconds was engulfed in green flames. Draco followed suit in disdain.

The store was practically untenanted. A few teen witches lingered in separate isles of the music section scanning through the names of new and unknown or old and out-dated bands, while the store assistants mindlessly walked around rearranging books and magazines that did not need to be moved or straightened, Draco reached into the inner pocket of his cloak and removed a sizeable pouch. “Scorpius.” He called; his son had wondered off into the music section. Scorpius made his way back to the fireplace where Draco waited. “Take this, spend as you please and meet me back here in a couple of hours or so. Understand?” The pouch was thrust upon Scorpius and he pocketed it, nodding his head.

Draco made no more of the situation, and started for the doors that lead out into the familiar streets that he had trodden upon for decades now. It was more crowded than he expected, but he soon realized it was nearing that lovely little muggle holiday wizards adopted to give one another reason for family unity and unbridled devotion to spending money on loved ones. People hurried up and down the streets, in and out through stores, and the snow covered pavement laid adorned with varying shoe prints. He sighed and attempted to gracefully make his way through the throng of cheery witches and wizards, but it was difficult not to submit to the occasional outstretched foot when so many angry citizens knew the face that once supported the tyranny of the fallen Dark Lord. They chuckled as he staggered, and continued on without a snide remark to even accompany them.

He wanted death to become him, though he would not be surprised if he had already been claimed. The humility he has faced since the end of the war surely has been enough to compensate for his wrong doings, for his dreadful upbringing, for all the evil deeds he’s committed at the words of the Dark Lord. They did not see that he suffered then too, working with the weight of his family’s death pressed hard upon his shoulders. Karma didn’t think it enough apparently, for he suffered now. Ridicule followed him as an arrow to its target. Unhappiness was brought with every decision he made. Even now as he stood in the clearing just outside Hogsmeade did the feeling of endless despair surround him.

He walked on regardless, the ends of his cloak heavy with snow. Soon the busy sounds of Hogsmeade ceased and it became him, the snow, and the Shrieking Shack. He stood at the fence surrounding it, never had he willingly gone pass it. Draco pulled back his hood; his platinum blonde hair fell at odd angles around his face, and he mourned the lost spirit whom died within those rotting walls. It was a silent tribute to his god father, thoughts swirled, but no tears tart with salt secreted from his eyes.

Severus Snape was a hard man to cry for. He was neither pleasant nor joyous and a sense of humor only came out in the form of an insult. He never attended a single party the Malfoy’s threw, nor attended any of Draco’s birthday gatherings, except his first. Of course, that one did not matter much, seeing as he obviously had no recollection of the event himself. On top of that, he had no use of the word hygiene, shown through his lack of shampoo usage and neglect for toothpaste.

However, he taught him many a skill: DADA, Occlumency, objectivity, discretion, potions. Draco knew that his godfather had cared about him, at least a little. If he did not, Draco would not stand where he is today, but die as his father is or lie as his aunt is, six feet below the surface. The unbreakable vow would have never been made and his life may not have been spared. He thanked him.

“Out of all the letters I wrote to you. I never expected it would be the last one that persuaded you to come here.”

“Where are your children?” His voice was quiet, and yet it still echoed in the wind.

He quirked a brow at his old nemesis, but answered his question. “With Ginny, doing some last minute Christmas shopping. How about your kid?”

“At home.” Draco lied, not wanting to give Potter further reason to confirm his image of him as worst father of the year.

“Hmm.” He said thoughtfully, but proceeded to ask what was really on his mind. “Do you feel better now that you’ve seen him?”

“I honestly, don’t see why you should give a damn Potter.” He spat his name with the same amount of venom he had used during his schooling days. “He abhorred you, and I feel you cannot say that feeling was not mutual.”

Potter nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t reply for some time. He removed his wide rimmed glasses, cleaning its rectangular lens before starting again. “Yes, of course. He gave me no reason to believe he was not the epitome of evil, but as you and I know, that was not true at all. Not saying he wasn’t a douche because he definitely was a Grinch. But -“

“He was a what?” Draco stared at his long time adversary with such perplexity; he had never heard of a grinch before.

“It’s a muggle thing.” Said Potter with the quick shrug of his shoulders. “But anyway, I forgave him and I believe, even in a small way, he has forgiven me too.”

“I highly doubt it.” He sniffed, unused to the cold. “So, you forgive all the detentions, and the insults he made sure to administer on a daily basis?”

“It was part of his cover.” Draco did not like the matter-of-fact tone he used or any tone rather.

“Or his anger.” Though it had been quite a while since the two had any type of interaction, Potter still remained the biggest pain in his arse. It was difficult to remain wholly civilized while near his golden aura, that silly benign force that radiated off him made Draco want to regurgitate all the contents in his stomach and then some. It was like an allergic reaction. It is one of the contributing factors as to why he enjoyed pissing Potter off, breaking that irritating façade he seemingly was born with. He smirked. “I suppose naming your son after him was a sign of forgiveness eh? Ugly little thing, you and your spouse produced. Then again, I can’t say you were the product of two beautiful people because I am quite familiar with your parent’s faces and I can’t say they were anything special.” He could feel Potter’s annoyance with him, but Draco wanted rage. “Come to think of it, you and your spouse look an awful lot like your parents.” He paused just long enough to let Potter realize where he was going to go with that odd fact.

“Draco-.”  He started, his voice lowering into a harsh baritone.

“Isn’t that a bit sick Potter? Do you think of your dear ol’ mum when you fuck her too?”

Potter looked like he was about to spontaneously combust and Draco reveled in it, even though it almost burned to look. He attempted match his glare, but he was too amused to pull it off correctly, so he settled for a smirk. He almost broke into a smile when he saw Potter reach into his pocket.

“Temper, temper dear Potter.”

“Shut the bloody fuck up, Malfoy. You unappreciative wanker.”  He looked beyond Draco’s cloaked form, back at the Shrieking Shack.

“Where have your manners gone? Honestly. I’m sure the Weaselette wouldn’t mind a little bit of roleplaying. She always looked like a kinky little bird. You two could play the distressed parents protecting their star child and I could be the evil wizard ‘bout to ruin your lives. We can work the sex in later.”A small smile took form on the alleged dark wizard’s face.

“I don’t have to put up with this shite.” Potter turned away and headed back to Hogsmeade, with terse and rigid steps, but not before shouting. “I’m really fucking glad you came!”  Draco grinned; feeling more relaxed than he had in a while. Potter was gone, but he still needed to get the last word.

“You’re welcome.”

He decided to stay a while longer and reminisce. While his mind swirled with his memories of his godfather, a small voice pooled in his ears invading his thoughts increasing slowly with time before he remembered. He apparated to the edge of Hogsmeade and hurried back to Elaine’s. He looked repeatedly through the isles of books and music and games before being greeted by one of the store’s employees.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” She asked. He read her name tag.

“Yes, Kadesa.” Her name was spoken funnily. It sounded as if it were all nasal, as if when he spoke her name he did not breathe. “There is. I’m looking for my son. Blonde, a bit short-”

“Oh, yes I’ve seen him. I wasn’t sure, but I guess- Hey! You’re that bloke. From the war!” Her expression of amazement fell, and her brows knitted together in thought. Draco prepared for the insulting attacks to start, wondering whether he would defend himself or walk away. However, she surprised him with a rarity he had scarcely experienced. “I’m sorry. I hear how everyone treats you.” She reached into her pant pocket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. “I saw him go by floo a couple of hours ago. He left this with me. Um, here.”

He stared at her, a bit skeptically. He really did not want her sympathy, but he would more readily accept that than those dreadful insults, unless he was the one administering them, of course. He pocketed the note, thanked her and left.

Out from the fireplace, he stepped slowly mulling over the day’s events. The day was epic, but he felt it was not over yet. And how correct he was, for back in his room he sat on the bed, staring the unused pouch of gallons he’d given to Scorpius.