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His lips were warm and soft against his pale cheek as his larger hand held on to his clammy one with a conviction facing the multiple loud flashes of the cameras crowding their path as Potter led him down Diagon Alley. The smiles came easily now, his thin lips opening in incandescent wonder at his husband’s display, a practiced move for the Wizarding world to fawn over. His pale cheeks coloured under his husband’s adoration, grey eyes twinkling in mirth as he burrowed himself further into the warmth at his side, letting his robes flutter in the crisp autumn breeze - a picture of contentment and domesticity. After all, wasn’t this why Potter married him - to assist the demonstration of a show of peace and forgiveness by the poster boy, an implicit call for the other wizards to obey and fall in line, to give up on their hatred for the death eaters. Draco’s smile grew wider as a flash went off beside him, closer than the others. He grinned a bit more like a maniac, the ruse scraping at his sanity now, desperate to not let the veil slip in front of the world expecting diligently a pretty doll blooming just for Harry Potter, to make the Saviour happy. Draco now, may be out of the woods but he still remembered those who yet were not, including his parents. He could not let them down.

He could hear Potter shout out delighted thanks to the paparazzi for their control and cooperation over the ringing in his ears, ever the thoughtful one, before seizing Draco firmly by the waist, and apparating them back to Grimmauld Place. The warm weight around his waist was gone even before Draco could blink, the darkness jarring after the brightness of the outside. He could hear the heavy footsteps disappear into the kitchen, the shuffling of the overcoat being shed from those broad shoulders and the light patters of Kreacher’s feet probably to help his disagreeable master in any way he could, hearing the soft, unintelligible murmurs of Potter as he commanded Kreacher around the kitchen, the opening and closing of cupboards as Potter got ready to make dinner. Draco rested a shaky palm on his bulging stomach, the only anomaly in his lithe frame, the tautness comforting and grounding him in that newly renovated house, breathing away calmly the slight nausea that arose within him, every time he apparated nowadays. Grimmauld Place implicitly recognised his authority as the last of the Blacks, the precious Pureblood survivor, the house implicitly also accepting Potter’s authority as a Black consort, despite his half-blood status. As Draco lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa in front of the fireplace, the fire started on its own in the hearth in front, a merry blaze, just enough to warm Draco’s cold cheeks and fingertips.

It had been Granger’s plan of announcing the pregnancy like this, a walk in Diagon alley after a visit to St. Mungo’s, with Draco’s robes clearly adjusted to show the bump. Potter had seemed a bit disconcerted with the idea, a frown marring his handsome features as he had ruminated on the idea before the fireplace, Draco sitting demurely on a chair, waiting for the final decision. None of them had looked at him, clearly not expecting any participation out of him and Potter had agreed grudgingly. Draco had learnt well to hold his tongue when Voldemort reigned over Malfoy Manor and it served him well now as Potter’s consort. Potter could not fault him now and neither could he turn Draco away for a wrong word. He was truly a reformed man for Potter. Draco folded his arms over his lap, fingers caressing, hoping for some quick fleeting movement within him as the Healer had promised. He had felt Potter’s eyes on him as the Healer had spoken some more in that cool chamber of the room, her voice kind but distant, sweeping over his prone frame, the naked expanse of his exposed abdomen as Draco had forced himself to stare at the contraption which apparently was inspired by Muggle technology, allowing him to look at a blurry picture of what was his growing son floating inside him. He had seen Potter’s arm extend to him, before falling down limply by his side and Draco had held back the whimper that had bubbled at his throat. He had known that Potter had been dying to touch him, feel the baby grow within him, ghost his fingers over the pale skin, marvelling at the life they had created between them. And Draco had shamelessly wanted that. And yet, he could not bring himself to say yes to Potter, the polite distance more comfortable than the uncertain future that awaited him if he allowed the walls carefully built by him between them to crumble.

Because, soon this dream had to break, had to crush like it was always meant to. The marriage had been a clear politically motivated one, encouraged by the Ministry and Shacklebolt, keen on pleasing the Chosen One’s wishes. And Potter had been infuriatingly good after the war, broken but still influential for the masses, living up to the expectations of a beacon for the Wizarding world to follow. Now it was Draco’s turn to dance to the music, to be the exemplary example of the reformed Death-Eater, brought over to the good side by love and kindness of the Chosen one himself. He had remembered Shacklebolt’s honeyed voice explaining the terms to Narcissa Malfoy, who trembled and stared emptily at the promise of the unconditional pardon before her, the promise of getting back her husband into her waiting arms and to not have her wealth confiscated, only if she handed over her son to the cause. Draco knew that his mother was not strong enough so he had done it for her, taken the quill for her shaking fingers, ignoring the look of confused relief as he had put down his signature in agreement, taking advantage of his age of majority and the absence of his father, effectively signing himself away to the Ministry to do with as they please. Narcissa had cried and sobbed then, her wasted figure, more slight than Draco had ever remembered, the worry eating away at her, reducing her to the husk of the beautiful, ethereal woman that Draco remembered from his childhood. And Draco told himself that he could not endure that any longer.

It was a small price to pay he had reminded himself as he had walked down the aisle a few days later, the white suit choking him, squeezing at his airways as he had stood beside Potter, feeling the eyes on him as he took his vows solemnly and the red ribbon burned into the skin of their conjoined hands and the camera flashes as Potter placed his slightly chapped lips against him, the glasses pressing against Draco’s face, sealing the marriage bond. He had seen the happiness on his mother’s face, the shame on his father’s face, the resentment on the faces of the Weasleys and the forced smiles on Granger’s and the rest of the people who had been specially invited to witness this sham of a marriage. Pansy and Blaise had come and the way they refused to meet Draco’s eyes as Potter led him down the aisle had told Draco enough. And that night as Potter rested his weight against him, grunting and apologising for what they were both supposed to do to finalise it all - consummating the marriage, Draco had borne it silently without complaint, even letting his arms rest on Potter’s back, holding him tightly as Potter had again and again hit that perfect spot deep within him, forcing Draco to feel the pleasure as Potter had come inside him, warm and quick, before rolling away and leaving Draco numb and empty, despite the wetness leaking out of him. It had continued night after night, until that one fateful morning six months ago, which saw Draco bent over the toilet, dry heaving at the smell of the bacon of Potter’s breakfast. That night was the last time Draco had his husband in his arms, tamping down on the treacherous wishes and desires that bubbled up within him as he clung desperately on to the strong, broad muscled back oh his husband, focusing on the pleasure that he knew only his husband could give him and none other. Potter had not touched him since.

Draco thankfully took the glass of orange juice that Kreacher offered up to him, feeling warm and content before the fire now, the slow tendrils of sleep reaching out to him now, his body tired of the life within already. The Healer had warned him of the increased urges of sleep and the increased libido that Draco would face now which made both him and Potter redden and fidget under the kind smile of the Healer. Draco smiled to himself as finally a tiny warmth rested against his skin, a slow but purposeful movement of their son within him, making Draco pull up his black sweater and watch with reverence the thin fragile outline of his son pressing against him. He let his finger ghost over the blue veins of his swollen stomach, admiring and wondering before a slight clearing of throat made him scramble to pull down his sweater and turn his wide eyes to the source at the door like a deer caught in the headlights.

Potter walked over and placed the small bowl of quinoa and chicken salad before him, the only thing that Draco eats with relish nowadays, savouring the slight sweetness and tartness of the cherry tomatoes and delighting in Potter’s amazing culinary skills. He knows that it makes Potter happy when Draco cherishes the food that he makes and Draco is stubborn enough to give that small happiness to Potter, even if he cannot give him anything else. He finishes the remnants of the juice as Potter settles down on the sofa beside him, before reverently picking up the bowl and taking dainty but purposeful bites of the salad as Potter watched him carefully. It was a silence which was pressing, settling on his skin and making his hair rise as Potter’s eyes followed the trajectory of the fork into Draco’s mouth, as his lips puckered and pressed down on the tines, pulling the food into his mouth, revelling in the heavenly burst of flavours that Potter always masterfully creates. Draco felt like a dangerous prey, as he closed his eyes, willing to savour out the salad after dreaming about it since he had it last night.

And yet, the salad was not the only thing he wanted. He wanted Potter’s warm hands on his bare skin, his hot body pressed against Draco’s, pushing him further into the mattress, teeth scraping Draco’s skin, bruising and marking him fiercely. It had been an unwelcome surprise for Draco to discover that the feelings he had long held for Potter had not entirely been animosity and jealousy but also a deep desire to be recognised and welcomed by the Chosen One. Draco had indeed wanted to be chosen by Potter like the Weasley had been. That realisation had kept him up at nights, made him double down on the brilliant boy with those mesmerising emerald eyes, hoping to beat out those feelings with the help of blinded hate, before the need to be held by Potter swallowed him whole. He had desperately wanted to be Potter’s equal, to be recognised by Potter, even to have that brilliant smile directed at him willingly. Those feelings still lived, very much alive, within him now, making his heart leap at every act of kindness that Potter showed him, at every mesmerising smile that Potter directed at him, taking Draco’s breath away, followed by a bright flash, if only to remind Draco of the manufactured reality of it all.

He had indeed heard the soft laments that Potter made to his two other friends in the late of the night when he thought Draco was deep in sleep in the other room. They had never slept together for the entire night and he had only come down for a glass of water when he had heard the soft whispers in the darkness, the gruffness of Potter’s voice as the distant ones of Granger and Weasley over the Floo.

“He is so distant that I just do not know what to do. I knew when I was getting into this marriage what I was getting into but somehow it has still left me empty, feeling a way that I never thought I would feel…”

Draco heard the sounds of agreement from the other side as Potter continued,

“It makes me so angry you know to see him like that, like a husk…staring into the emptiness. I get so frustrated that I want to scream and shake him but I know he will just stare at me with those maddening grey eyes, giving into anything that he thinks I expect of him. It like having a pretty doll in the room, one that is soon going to give birth to my son and yet, I cannot bring myself to kiss him.”

“Give it time,Harry.” Hermione’s voice came from the other side, soothing but Draco could hear the concern lacing it, pity for what Potter has to endure à cause de Draco.

Potter grunted a sound of irritation and it was all that took for Draco to flee the scene. It was all the confirmation he needed for his latent fears to rear their heads within him, to realise the last threads of patience that Potter had for him were snapping, that it would not be long before the dream that Draco had conjured for himself within the four walls of Grimmauld Place would dissipate into cruel reality of a bitter marriage. He had slept poorly after that and when Kreacher brought him his carefully cooked breakfast the next day, one which he knew that Potter will have cooked for him, it took all that Draco had to not burst into hysterical tears. Since then, Draco had known better than to go downstairs after everyone in the house had tucked themselves into bed. He could not have his already fragile heart snap anymore than it already was.

He placed the bowl onto the small Moroccan table by the side of the sofa, the sleep pulling harder at him now, making him loath to go up to the cold bed waiting for him upstairs. He just wanted to curl up here and dream of a world where a small pale child with a shock of raven hair and brilliant green eyes like his father played in the gardens of the Malfoy Manor, even as his father chased the miniature version of him, coming close to catch him enough before letting the wriggling child escape again, delighting in the maniacal laughter escaping the child as he ran like an errant garden gnome. Draco could feel the love and warmth of the scene as his eyes closed and stretched out, almost forgetting Potter’s existence there, eager to loose himself in that treacherous dream. He started as his head hit Potter’s lap, making him almost shoot up in protest but Potter held him there, hand firm and unyielding against Draco’s shoulder, warm breath tickling the shell of Draco’s ear as he whispered, “Stay.”

And Draco had stayed indeed like a good boy, enjoying the feel of the soft fingers carding through his hair, turning to face the soft, open face of the man that he longed for every minute of his waking and every second of sleep, eyes heavy as he opened himself up to Potter, letting his own fingers card through the distinct dark curls, so different from his smooth, straight strands. His felt the familiar probs against the barriers of the gate of his mind, encouraging him to open up and for the first time in his life, Draco did, letting Potter see the same dream as he was, of their son in the Manor, giggling in the sun as Draco lay on a plaid spread, heavily pregnant again, calm and content in Harry’s arms as he chased the soft kisses that his husband served up to him. Draco filled the longing in his mind for his husband to see, how Draco did indeed thirst shamelessly for his husband, beyond the polite dictates of society and he thought he heard Potter let out a soft sigh of surprise at Draco’s descent from the man that he was. He almost sobbed as Potter seized his lips with a passion that Draco had yearned for since he had first realised his desire for Potter.

“Foolish boy, you! You only had to ask.” Potter murmured against his lips as he thoroughly dipped his tongue and explored the warmth that Draco willingly opened up to him. “You only have to ask and I will give it to you.”

As those warm wet lips trailed across his pale skin, Draco felt the other warmth settle on the naked skin of his abdomen, as Potter experienced for the first time, the soft kicks of his son against his large palm. He sighed in wonder against Draco’s skin, returning again to seize Draco’s lips hungrily, sucking impatiently, the shell frame of his glasses digging into Draco’s skin but Draco was far too gone to care. He whimpered and sighed as the cloud over his mind deepened and made him feel better than he had in ages. When had he last experienced such unadulterated bliss, such freedom and such pure happiness, which seemed to burst out of his skin and take shape before him? He was putty in Potter’s hand and he wanted to be. Potter’s hand roved over his pregnant stomach, his eyes shining with brilliant wonder, as he stared at the bulge before pressing his lips to it reverently. He had then looked up to see Draco’s eyes staring at him as he whispered against the taut skin: “Let me worship you?”

Draco could not believe it as Potter popped the button on his black trousers, pulling down to release his pale length before putting his warm mouth to it, making Draco sob from the need and want of it all. His brain scrambled away, leaving behind only pleasure and a distinct ringing in his ears. It was only Draco and Potter’s brilliant mouth pleasuring him in that void and when Draco came, it was more than he had ever expected, staining both him and Potter with white strands of cum. But his husband merely grinned as he wiped his red lips and reached up to Draco, letting him smell Draco on him and taste himself too as their lips again joined together.

“I love you.” Potter whispered into his skin, “I love you so much, I can burst.”

Draco nodded and smiled softly, “Me too.” He slurred his words but Potter’s incandescent smile told him that Potter knew. As those strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer, Draco finally let that giggle burst out of him as he poked Harry on the side: “We are a little too well-dressed for bed, Potter.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Potter feigned but the mirth in his eyes remained, “ How about we continue this in our bed, Mrs. Potter?” He made sure to enunciate his ‘t’ just as Draco himself did, making Draco laugh again in happiness.

“I thought you would never ask.”

As he was lifted in Harry’s arms and taken to what was now to be their bedroom, Draco let himself savour this moment a bit more. He would pretend he had not seen the gold shimmers in the orange juice just as Kreacher had handed the juice to him, swirling and beautiful. After all if it was all what it took to make Potter love him, who was Draco to refuse? A little Felix Felicis never hurt anyone, right?