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Chapter Text

Draco had a lifetime of regret. There were atrocities he had done that he wished so badly he could take back. There were certain things he had said to certain people that he wished he hadn’t. There were things he had like to have said, too. There were leaps he was always too afraid to take. There were failures he'd never get over.

He wanted to turn back time and set things right.

But he couldn’t. He could only move forward.

It took Draco everything in him to get dressed the next Monday morning. To throw on a jacket, though it was a warm August day, and bend down to tie the laces on his oxfords, his knees protesting when he tried to get back up. To look at himself one last time in the mirror that hung in the entryway just before he left, trying to not hate the person staring back at him.

He paused at the door, hands stuffed in his pockets, empty but for some Muggle money and his wand, as he considered going back upstairs to have a lie in with Astoria, who wasn’t due at her hatchway office in the Daily Prophet’s bottling building until noon.

He also contemplated bolting for the back door, which led to the small solarium where Draco kept his various birds, sunned, shaded, and perched on handmade playgyms when they weren’t on his shoulder or tucked away in their cages. It was his favorite place to be whenever he felt down or anxious or just not having it.

His linnets and redpolls and goldcrests and finches would fly about his head while he lived inside it, coaxing him out of his own thoughts with their chirruping and trills until he was present with them, whistling notes himself until the entire conservatory was a coloratura of birdsong.

(Astoria would often tell him to kindly shut up. Her dogs were napping.)

But Draco, who had a pesky son now taller than him pushing his back out the door, called out a goodbye to his family, stepped out over the threshold, and turned on the spot until he could talk himself out of it.

He arrived early and neatly in one piece, his long hair only slightly out of place from the rustle of Apparition. He pinned it back and smoothed it down and murmured soft affirmations before stepping out of the shadows of the tight alleyway where he landed and going north on Monmouth Street.

The cafe where he was to meet Harry was snug in between two other coffee shops, which Draco found excessive. Why were people, magic and Muggle alike, so obsessed with overpriced, steaming mugs of flavored bean water? Draco took a seat in one of the wicker chairs under the red awning of the cafe and waited, watching Muggles bustle about the Seven Dials and wondering if he had been stood up.

And just as he was about to wallow in that sad and likely fact, Harry appeared. Mussed hair but smartly dressed (save for the trainers) and a very tall and lanky red-headed man beside him.

“Weasley,” Draco said, out of instinct.

“One of them, yes,” the man said back. “Bill.” He stuck out his hand, pale and freckly, and Draco shook it. Harry had said he was bringing a brother-in-law, but Draco couldn’t picture any of them. It had been too long since he’d seen any of the Weasleys besides Ron. Bill looked like him a lot, only older and with far better hair. It hung loose and long past his shoulders, still fiery red and with an unstoppable hairline. Draco was envious.

He was also partial to Bill’s fang earrings, of which there were many. Draco didn’t know how a middle-aged man could look so cool.

When Harry barked a laugh and Bill said, “Well, for a wizard I’m actually quite young,” Draco realized he must have said that last part out loud. He felt his face heat up in mortification.

“Let’s go, yeah?” Harry said around a smile, and Draco felt a fondness mixed with annoyance.

He followed Harry and Bill inside and they picked a little marble table next to a window. Draco took a side by himself and watched as Harry and Bill fell into easy conversation about their last family dinner. Draco imagined an absurdly long dining table filled with lanky redheads and miniature Harrys, no one getting a proper word in but enjoying the company all the same. His thoughts naturally drifted to his own home, where he and Astoria and Scorpius always enjoyed a quiet meal together, the two best people in the world usually sharing a little joke at Draco’s expense. He smiled. Merlin, he missed them already.

“Who’s this?” came a voice, and Draco looked up. A burly man, full-bearded and with an ivy cap atop dark curly hair, plopped down in the seat next to Draco, who received a generous elbow right in his ribs.

“Sorry about that,” came the apology, and then, with a hearty clap on Draco’s shoulder that knocked him into the table, “I’m Rolf.”

Draco scrambled to pick up a sugar bowl that clattered toward Bill. “Draco,” he said, very aware of Harry’s smirk across from him and trying his damnedest to ignore it. He busied himself with cleaning up the rest of the mess from Rolf’s boisterous arrival, taking a long time as he did so, partly because he couldn’t use magic in this Muggle establishment but mostly because he just needed something to do. He felt that telling Rolf who he was wholly unnecessary, because surely Harry had let everyone know about this pity invite, this joke of a breakfast—

“Harry tells me you’ve got an amazing boy,” Bill said, interrupting Draco’s thoughts.

“Oh, right,” said Rolf, who had flagged down a server to take their orders. “At Hogwarts? What year is he in?”

When Draco, who hadn’t expected any of this, and who somehow couldn’t find the words to boast about what he was most proud of, just sat there, Harry supplied, “He’ll be starting Seventh, just like Albus.”

“Right,” said Draco, and he felt stupid for having nothing much to say after that. He was saved by someone coming to take their orders and chose something from the menu at random, more interested in what else Harry told these men.

“Harry also said you were a gentleman of leisure,” said Bill, who was grinning. Beside him, Harry shrugged. There it was.

“That’s a polite way of calling me unemployed,” Draco said.

“That’s a polite way of calling you rich,” said Harry.

“Well, good to meet you, Mr. Money Bags,” said Rolf.

Draco listened to Harry and Rolf and Bill catch up, a matcha latte in his hands and at his lips when he had nothing to say and could only nod his acknowledgement or hum his interest. The green shade of his drink was a pleasant one, as was the flavor, which he had never tried before, and he delighted in every frequent sip. Soon his cup was empty and he was left without a buffer and forced to speak, especially when the conversation drifted back his way.

“Do you not go into wizarding London often?” asked Bill, who Draco learned had worked for Gringotts for many years. He had a son at Hogwarts, too.

“I try not to go where I’m not wanted,” said Draco, knowing full well how pathetic that sounded.

“You should try,” said Harry. “We could always join you if you thought—”

“I don’t need fake friends or bodyguards,” Draco snapped.

“Whoa, hey,” said Rolf, and Draco felt a hand at his shoulder, much gentler this time. “Thought you left your baggage at the door, or wherever you blew in from, eh? This is just coffee.”

It was just coffee. Draco looked around. He was in a Muggle cafe with Harry and his friends, having coffee. His wife was best mates with Ginny Potter. And he was—he was friendly with Harry. The father of his son’s, well, everything.

“Right,” said Draco, composing himself. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry, sounding amused. “We’ve all got scars.” Draco’s eyes flickered to Harry’s forehead, half-covered with messy fringe that refused to be styled back.

“No kidding,” said Bill, who was sporting some lacerations of his own, down his face in deep gashes, smoothed only slightly by time.

Under the table, Draco smoothed out the sleeve covering the arm where a poorly-cursed off Dark Mark once was. He thought too of the slash marks on his chest, just faint ribbons of skin now, caused by someone at the table who probably didn’t even know he was forgiven.

“Yeah,” he said, lamely.

Next to him, Rolf chugged down another galão before clearing his throat. “I’ve got a nasty scar on my arse,” he said, wiggling in his seat. “Got on the wrong side of an Umgubular Slashkilter.” At the unimpressed look of everyone else, Rolf sighed. “Sorry we can’t all be ‘war heroes.’”

“I’m not,” Draco said. “A war hero, that is.” Rolf gave him a sort of commiserating look, but Draco thought the act wasted. He didn’t think that being on the wrong side of the fight and being out of the country on magizoology expeditions because your family documented magical wildlife were all that similar.

And so what if Rolf hadn’t been on the scene in those dark days? He was lucky, and different, and no less admirable for it. It was easy to see how he made friends with Harry so effortlessly. He was loud, yes, and belligerent. But Draco could already tell that he was kind and forthright and honest. He was good and funny and true. Draco wished he could be like that.

And Bill. Of course Harry would be friends with him. They were family first and then comrades. Brothers in arms in a war of which Draco was on the wrong side. He envied that fellowship, though he felt foolish doing so. It was his own fault that he didn’t fight alongside them.

But here they all were, grown and together. And the only things between them now were copious cups of coffee.

“It’s not all it’s hyped up to be, to be honest,” said Harry wryly. And maybe he wasn’t living the high life of hero worship, Draco thought, because he looked far happier indulging in an affogato than when he saw him in his office. Though, to be fair, gelato drowned in espresso and called a drink was expected to be more enjoyable than most things. “Too much paperwork,” Harry said around a slurp. “And too many stares.”

“Why I prefer Muggle places,” Draco said.

“They do have their charm,” added Bill, who was still on his first tiny cup of Turkish coffee. Draco wondered how much time Bill spent in Muggle society. He was from an old, Pure-Blood family and apparently had no reservations about wearing wizarding robes in non-magical places. And while the looks he got were peculiar, they weren’t nasty. Maybe the Muggles just thought him fashionably eccentric.

“Eh,” said Rolf. “Muggle. Magical. They all look at you the same when you pull a lizard out of your pocket.”

Draco glanced down to Rolf’s seat, where his leg was jiggling. Nothing was crawling up out of his pocket and onto his trousers, but his belt did look a bit chewed on the edge there.

“Do you like this place?” asked Bill, and Draco nodded an enthusiastic yes while his mouth was stuffed with a bite of pavlova—rose-water meringue topped with pistachios and rhubarb. “It was my week to choose.”

Bill looked pleased with everyone’s satisfaction (Draco was on his second latte and Harry had just ordered another affogato, and Rolf, already done with his helping of pavlova, was not-so-subtly eyeing what was left on Draco’s plate) and leaned back in his chair. Draco wished he could look as effortless. Like someone who had their shit together.

Not like someone who, despite being a grown man, still felt uneasy at a restaurant table doing something as mindless and casual as drinking coffee.

Draco tried to keep up with the rest of the conversation, shaking his head in feigned commiseration when Harry or Bill complained about work or trying to keep in his seat and not swear when Rolf, startling them all, did end up pulling a lizard from his pocket—a green moke he’d saved from skinning after raiding a wizarding tanner’s workshop.

Draco watched the moke scurry across the table to inspect a pistachio on Harry’s plate.

“How are your animals? You have birds, right?”

It took Draco a moment to realize that Harry was talking to him. That Harry was once again being downright pleasant and asking about his life.

“Um, yes,” Draco said, and out of the corner of his eye saw Rolf perk up and lean in, lizard having scuttled up onto his shoulder, as if it was whispering secrets in his ear. (Perhaps it was.) “Did Ginny tell Astoria or—”

“Ron, actually,” said Harry, and Draco felt his face heat up. Harry smiled, and Draco was immediately taken back to their school days when, as it had happened more often than not, Harry one-upped him.

And just when he thought they were getting on. Draco rolled his eyes and let out a long exhale. Harry snickered.

“What am I missing?” Bill asked.

“And when are we going to talk about the animals?” inquired Rolf.

“I saw Ron,” Draco explained. “I’ve been seeing Ron.”

“I thought you hated each other?” said Bill.

“Steamy,” said Rolf.

“Tell them, Draco,” Harry said. “It’s hilarious.”

“It’s not, but fine,” Draco relented. He took another sip of his matcha latte. “I saw Ron a few months ago in a Muggle barbershop. I think he was as surprised to find me there as I was to see him.”

“My mum cuts Ron’s hair,” Bill said, a confused look on his face. Then he chuckled. “A forty-something-year-old man gets his hair cut by his mum with a shearing wand and soup bowl.”

“Not anymore,” said Draco. And he felt… good? About knowing something that no one else at the table apparently did. “He was scouting the place, asking the barbers all sorts of questions, sniffing the shampoo bottles displayed on the counter.” Self-consciously, Draco tugged on the end of his ponytail. “He was asking them about hair loss.”

“Ah,” said Rolf.

“Well, that’s reasonable,” said Bill, “considering our dad.” Draco had a fuzzy memory of Arthur Weasley, thin and balding. Bill apparently dodged that gene. Next to him, Harry gave a sympathetic nod. As if he could relate, Draco thought, looking at that shaggy mess he called a hairstyle.

“Anyway,” Draco continued, figuring he might as well get on with it. “I was there for my usual trim—no wizards to spit in my conditioner or give me an unwanted mullet, you know—and I overheard his questions and invited him back to my home.”

“Getting steamier, I like it.”

“Shut up, Rolf, let him finish.”

“He was reluctant, at first,” Draco said. “Tried to curse me, until I reminded him that our children appear to be pretty good friends. He eventually let me show him some, um, spells I use on my own hair.”

“You charm your hair?” Bill asked, and Draco felt himself warm with the gazes of him, Harry, and Rolf now locked on to his head.

“It started receding,” Draco murmured. But no, he wouldn’t be ashamed. “So I found the best hair growing charm, fiddled around with it, pointed my wand at my head and just—” he mimed a flourishy wave and went, “Zap.”

“You zapped it?”

“I zapped it.”

“And you gave yourself the old Lucius,” said Harry.

Draco gave him a dark look. “This is strictly Draco,” he said. “Yes, it’s long, that’s a side-effect of my charm. But my father could never plait like this, I’ll have you know.”

“Is that why the last time I saw Ron he had a ponytail?” asked Rolf. “I took Lorcan and Lysander to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes a few weeks ago and Ron had his hair tied up. I thought he was Bill for a moment.”

“He wishes,” scoffed Bill.

“I can’t wait to see Ron’s new hair,” said Harry, shoulders shaking with laughter. “He’s been obsessed with your hair, Draco, since we saw you at the train station last year.”

Draco remembered something then, from when he saw Harry just a week prior.

“I thought you said you saw Ron all the time? I imagine his hair’s been long for months.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I see him in theory.”

“What does that mean?”

“I, er, write to him. I see photos that he owls me and see memos from Hermione telling me to get to work.”

Draco thought that Harry looked a little sad sitting there, admitting that he had lost touch with his friends. When he elaborated that he actually saw Ron and Hermione at holidays now or if, by chance, they made it to the same Weasley dinners, he looked downright miserable.

“I’m a little envious, actually,” Harry said. “You’ve seen Ron this year more than me.”

While Draco digested the idea that Harry Potter could be the slightest bit envious of him, of all cursed people, they wrapped things up. Bill was due at Gringotts and Harry was late for work, and Rolf, a pair of copper omnioculars now swinging from his neck and his moke sitting shotgun atop his cap, was bound for the Cley Marshes of Norfolk. Before they left, he got out of Draco what kind of animals he kept, and when Draco told him that he had a panoply of pets, including a cat, dogs, and flock of finches, his eyes went wide and he said, “A, I love you, and B, you’re coming next week, yes?”

Draco was indeed invited to the next Monday coffee outing. “Meeting,” Harry had corrected him. “Please come to the next Monday morning meeting.” The distinction was an important one, Harry explained. By calling their weekly little get together a meeting and noting that who he was meeting with was the Head Curse Breaker for Gringotts and the Chief Consulting Magizoologist for the Daily Prophet, he could bill all their food and drinks to the Ministry. Plus, he could use that hour to not do paperwork and avoid the lift rush to his office when he did saunter in well after anyone else in the building.

“Can you believe Potter?” Draco asked Astoria the next week, when he was supposed to be leaving again for a coffee place in Newington Green. “He’s such a—a—bureaucrat!”

“Oh, get out of here,” Astoria said, and she kissed him goodbye.

Draco had made sure to dress smartly that morning, in a crisp shirt Astoria was fond of stealing and freshly-pressed trousers, but when he arrived at the place where he was supposed to meet the others, he felt very overdressed. The building was cramped, with cement walls and metal tables and unfinished floors. A very factory-feel to what looked like more of an industrial bakery than a restaurant. The menu was entirely on blackboard and scrawled in chalk, as if the selection and prices were changed daily and without notice. Even the sign above the door looked scribbled, as if the name was a hurried afterthought.

He was early, again, and decided to loiter around a display table covered in butcher paper and an assortment of loaves, buns, and croissants. Above it, on untreated wooden shelves, were rows of dusty bottles of wine. Most unsettling were the words painted all over one of the walls, describing things like flaming locks of auburn hair, ivory skin and eyes of emerald green. To the lyrics, Draco whistled a low, melancholy melody, not unlike the warbling songs of his purple finches back home.

“Are you serious?” came a voice, and Draco spun around. Rolf was there, hands on his hips, and a faint squeaking coming from the satchel hanging by his thigh.

“Um…” said Draco, who didn’t know what he should be serious about. “Is there something wrong?” And Draco truly feared that there was. This was only the second week and he had messed up already. His anxiety about his outfit only heightened when Rolf gestured to him, his big hand flapping from the ornate serpent pin tying back Draco’s hair to the tassels on his shiny black loafers.

“Look at you,” he said. Draco glanced down at himself. “You’re in your forties and look like this? You are unbelievable! Lit-er-al man magic. So fuck you.”

Taken aback by what he could only guess was a crass compliment, Draco stuttered. “Um, thank you?”

“Yeah, Draco, way to make the rest of us look bad,” said Harry, who had appeared next to him so swiftly and quietly that Draco nearly dropped the muffin he’d picked up to purchase.

“Who looks bad?” Bill had arrived, too.

“No one,” said Draco, eager to get the conversation away from how he looked. His ears were on fire. “Shall we sit?”

Rolf ordered a large order of marmalade shortbread to split, on him, since he chose the little bakery. Harry was apt to remind him that he picks up the tab every time and Rolf waved him off with “semantics.”

When Draco offered to pay his own tab, he was cut off with a resounding chorus of “no.”

So he enjoyed his Aztec mocha, half-listening to his companions talk about their work and half-wondering the creative intent behind the decor. Who put a single twig in a vase and called that ambience?

“Are we supposed to be able to see the kitchen?” he asked an employee wiping down the neighboring table (though the table needed far more than a dingy cloth—the metal was dented and stained beyond charm!).

“Don’t mind my mate here,” said Harry, before ordering Draco another drink—a hot butter latte—and himself a chai with a hefty dollop of spiced whipped cream on top. Embarrassed, Draco just stared past him, where the words on the wall were even more haunting. My happiness depends on you.

“He’s new to this brain trust,” Rolf said. “This meeting of extraordinary minds.”

The employee just stared back, probably not finding anything extraordinary about any of them.

“Albus has been missing Scorpius a lot,” Harry said, forcing Draco to participate in the conversation. Sipping on his cortado, Bill remarked about how funny it was that they were friends and Rolf, who presumably had only heard stories of why this would be funny, swirled the ice around in his four-shot espresso sledgehammer and asked why.

“It’s a long story,” said Harry.

“Harry and I hated each other,” Draco supplied.

“That’s the abridged version.”

“And yes, Scorpius has been missing Albus, too. I think it’s been, what, a week since they last saw each other?”

“How dare we keep them apart,” Harry said dryly. “I asked Albus to visit with his grandmother once and he sulked for hours because he had planned to spend the day writing Scorpius.”

“That close, eh?” asked Bill.

“Scorpius is counting down the days until school begins and he can spend every moment with his Albus.”

“Adorable,” said Rolf. “I remember my first love. Darling girl in Hufflepuff. We went out for a month before I found her on top of the Astronomy Tower with someone else. She called me a bearded tit and told me my fascination with the Giant Squid was ‘concerning.’ Broke my heart.”

Draco thought he saw a pout behind all that beard and wondered if it was the indiscretion, the insult, or the distaste for the cryptid in the Black Lake that was more soul-shattering for him.

“Well, it’s not like that, yet,” said Harry. “We thought it would be almost immediately, but it turns out they’re both a little dense.”

Draco would have taken offense if it wasn’t true.

“They got caught in a broom cupboard,” he said. “But it turned out that they had somehow just locked themselves in there.”

“Albus loves Muggle magic tricks and thought he could produce the key from behind Scorpius’s ear,” Harry added, shaking his head. Bill looked intrigued at the concept of Muggle sorcery and fiddled with a scarred ear, as if he’d find a coin behind it himself. “McGonagall found the key and their wands just outside the door. They barely made the last match of the season.”

“Oh, they play Quidditch?” asked Rolf, who, likely aided by too many caffeine stimulants, perked up some more, twisting in his seat and knocking himself into Draco.

Across the table, Harry wore a pained expression that mirrored Draco’s own. They looked at each other and, in tandem, sighed.

“They don’t so much play Quidditch as they do, er, participate in the games,” Harry said.

“What does that mean?” Bill asked.

“They’re terrible!” Draco groaned. “Bloody awful.” He put his face in his palm and felt Rolf’s hand come down reassuringly on his shoulder.

It was a travesty, truly, that his son, the best little thing he had helped bring into the world, was complete shit at Quidditch. The only thing that made the entire ordeal slightly more bearable was that Albus was just as bad. The past year, Draco and Harry had sat through six agonizing games as their sons zipped across the Quidditch Pitch, bat in hand but so busy making moon eyes at each other that they nearly fell off their brand new brooms or lobbed Bludgers at their own teammates.

“They can’t fly,” said Harry, and Draco could hear the dejection dripping from his voice. “Ginny and Astoria got them new Moontrimmers and even with the controlled steering and breaks and anti-gravity lifts, they just—they just—”

“Suck,” said Draco. It was true. He had hoped that some residual talent would find its way to his son. But no. “Scorpius swung his bat once and sent a Bludger at Slytherin’s Keeper. Gryffindor made three consecutive goals.”

“Albus once hurled a Bludger at Scorpius, broke his nose, and then spent the rest of the game sobbing,” Harry sighed. “He said the reason why he flew into the Slytherin’s Seeker and made him fumble the Snitch was because his eyes were so wet his vision was impaired.”

“So with one Beater down, the other team scored four-hundred and eighty points,” Draco went on. He might as well. The universe—or at least this table—should know this shame.

“That was one of their better games,” Harry said solemnly.

"And not even the worst part,” said Draco. “Tell them Harry.” He couldn’t bear to.

Apparently Harry couldn’t either. “No, you tell them. It was you who taught them how to make them flash.”

“Taught them what?”

“Who's flashing?”

“I taught them how to make flashing badges and now they wear these things pinned to their robes that say—they say—”

“They say ‘We'll beat you off’ and ‘Beating off the other players since 2022,’” Harry said, and he threw down the last of his chai and sat back in his seat with a sigh.

"What?"

"That's... bold," said Bill. "Very, courageous? You know, I'm afraid to say anything, actually."

"He wears all sorts of things,” Draco went on. “So I didn’t think anything of it. Badges, pins, little ribbons that signal his every thought or personality trait. Because nothing’s true if it isn’t tacked onto your person, I guess.”

“I wish Albus wore badges,” Harry mumbled. “I’d love a little clue like, ‘I’m going to be a prick today!’ or just ‘HUNGRY.’ At least I’d know what he’s feeling.”

Draco understood that.

“I asked Scorpius if he was trying to make a statement, or a joke," Draco admitted. “But I don't think he was?”

“Your kid doesn't understand double entendres?”

“Or they're both laughing at us," Harry said.

“I don’t know, but I ended up giving him a forty-five minute lecture about washing his hands,” said Draco. “It was mortifying. I don’t think I’m cut out for these kinds of conversations.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?” asked Bill. Now that was an idea. Surely, someone as confident and cool as Bill, older and more experienced in the way of the world, could be someone Scorpius could talk to.

“Oh, that would be great.” Draco already felt lighter.

“You want Bill to give your son the sex talk?” asked Harry, looking bewildered.

“Not the sex talk,” Draco said. “A sex talk. A talk that would be much smoother than mine. About how, you know, you can be cool about things. And not, um—”

“A total knobhead?”

“Thanks, Rolf.”

“A talk that you don’t have to give,” said Harry. “Saves the embarrassment for both of you.” Now he was catching on.

“I've done very well for myself,” said Bill, though no one asked. “I would be an excellent confidant.”

“I can't relate,” Draco said, mostly to himself. “Astoria loves me out of pity, I think.” He received some sympathetic noises from Harry and Bill.

Rolf was more practical. “You do only have the one son.”

“Not for lack of trying!”

“I'm only saying.”

Draco felt a little affronted. “You know, I don’t get you, Rolf. You're hot and you’re cold. You're telling me I'm handsome and then you're questioning my sexual prowess.”

“Well sure, you're handsome,” Rolf scoffed. “But something could be lackluster downstairs. How's the stream when you piss? Like an Aguamenti on full blast or a leaky tap?”

“Christ, Rolf, it’s eight a.m. on a Monday.”

"It's a healthy stream, thanks." Draco shoved another piece of shortbread in his mouth. Bill motioned for a server to bring them another round of drinks. Draco’s palms grew sweaty at the thought. He was already fully caffeinated. Next to him, Rolf’s leg was twitching so violently his knees kept hitting the underside of the table.

Harry was growing increasingly more chatty. “I thought mine was okay,” he said. “But then I hear James and Al use the loo and I start to envy their youth.”

“I'm too afraid to ask about what we're talking about anymore,” said Bill. “So I won’t. How's Ginny taking all this Quidditch stuff?”

Draco was also glad to steer the conversation elsewhere, even if they drifted back to his son’s miserable attempt at sports.

“In denial,” said Harry. “She keeps blaming the refs, the other players, the grass on the pitch or the wind through the goalposts. Anyone and anything besides Albus. She got into a fight with another parent at the last match. Knocked her teeth out. We just barely dodged a lawsuit.”

“I had to hold Astoria back,” Draco added. “She saw Ginny tumbling down the stands and tried to fight the woman that pushed her.”

“I was thinking,” Harry said later, scratching the back of his neck as they dropped Muggle money on the table and pushed their chairs in, the loud scraping reminding Draco of how much he hated unfinished floors.

“Well that’s never good.”

“Shut up,” Harry sighed. “I was thinking that maybe we should bring the boys next Monday.”

“You want me to come next week?” Draco asked. One invitation was charity. Another was mockery. But a third? Could they really be enjoying his company?

“Yes!” said Bill and Rolf at the same time, elbowing Draco as they passed and waving goodbye. It was just him and Harry then, standing in the way of others trying to eat, the clinking of cups louder than ever.

They walked together outside. Draco was grateful for the fresh air. Somewhere, a starling sang.

“Yes, of course you should come. You’re part of the, er, Assembly of Great Minds, or whatever Rolf called it.”

“Extraordinary Minds,” Draco said, feeling ridiculous as he said it, but giddy all the same. “And you think Scorpius and Albus would enjoy this?”

“Why not? They go to brunch with Ginny and Astoria all the time.”

“Yeah, but Scorpius loves his mum,” Draco said. “He barely tolerates me.”

“Maybe this will change things?”

“Or maybe,” Draco thought, “we could convince them to ditch Quidditch and pick up something safe, like being kitmen or playing Gobstones or something.”

“That’s the spirit.”

So it was decided. They would drag the boys along with them next Monday and meet at a place of Harry’s choosing. And if Scorpius and Albus decided to not try out for the Quidditch team in the fall, then so be it. And if Scorpius came away from his talk with Bill a little less awkward, then fine. Good.

This was going to be good.

As he and Harry parted, each looking for a discreet spot to Disapparate, back home for Draco and late for work for Harry (again), Draco had a glorious thought. An idea that might make his son more amenable to spending time with his dad. He called out to Harry.

“Shall I make badges?”

“I’m excited, I’m excited!” Scorpius was trilling. Skipping about the kitchen, nearly knocking into his mother, who was carrying a stack of sketches for her newest children’s book.

“Scorpius!” she chided.

“He’s excited,” Draco said.

“Clearly.”

Conrad and Willa, Astoria’s dachshunds, ran under Scorpius’s feet, yipping. Draco loathed those dogs. Astoria was a bit off her rocker when it came to them. She’d coo at them and let them on her lap at dinner, scratching behind their ears while they eyed Draco’s plate.

She’d even taken out a line of credit at Circle of Stitches, so she could buy baskets of yarn and crochet the little demons matching jumpers and hats.

Completely crackers.

Scorpius and Draco found common ground when it came to those two terrors. Because when Conrad and Willa were at their worst, they’d chase Scorpius’s cat, Perenelle, throughout the house. She’d eventually find her way into the solarium, startling little Beatrice, Cortland, Ivy and Thurston and all the others so much that Draco would be picking up plumage for hours and worried sick over his feathered friends.

“Devils!” Draco said for good measure as he and Scorpius, who was nodding in agreement, walked out.

Over the slam of the door he heard Astoria holler, “What did you just say?”

“Where are we going? Have you been there before? Am I going to vomit again? Can’t we take a car?”

Scorpius was full of questions, far too many for before eight o’clock in the morning.

“A cafe, no, I hope not, and no again,” Draco answered. Scorpius didn’t like Apparating, always heaving once he landed and often puking up his insides, usually all over Draco.

Fortunately, Draco’s new blazer was spared from last night’s dinner and he and Scorpius, who was just a little woozy, landed graciously in Waterloo, just east of their destination and next to a very startled busker.

Together they walked, whistling high and chirpy, stopping to peer into shops or watch the Muggles go about their day, until they reached the doors of an unassuming cafe, arriving at the same time as Bill and Rolf.

“Draco!” called Rolf, and before he could answer, Draco was pulled into a sideways hug, his head lodged into Rolf’s armpit. “You’re late!”

Draco gave an mmph noise that caused Rolf to release him from his one-armed embrace. Draco wiggled his nose, free from being pushed into Rolf’s underarm, and ignored his son’s chuckles. “What was that?” Rolf asked.

“I said that I’m on time,” Draco said again.

“For you that’s early, though,” said Bill, and Draco silently agreed. Scorpius and his mother were always late. So it evened out. “So this is Scorpius!”

Bill was shaking Scorpius’s hand then, and Scorpius was beaming. Looking up (because of course Bill was the tallest person around) and nodding along as Bill introduced himself, long red hair framing his face and wolf head stud earrings catching the glint of the morning sun.

Down the brick-paved road, Draco could make out Harry and Albus. When Scorpius also noticed, his eyes went as big as dinner plates.

“Oh, quick!” exclaimed Bill. “Scorpius, come here.”

Scorpius, who looked like he would very much rather run in the direction of Albus Potter, looked petulant. And when Rolf gently guided him back to Bill, he looked downright nervous.

“What’s going on?”

“Albus,” Bill said, nodding over to where Albus and Harry were stopped on the street. Albus appeared to be trying to coax a pigeon with a stray chip. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Um, yes.”

“What?” Draco didn’t know this. How did he not know this?

“Right. Great. Well, how’s it going?”

“Good, I guess, but we’ve only just decided—”

“That’s wonderful. How are you doing, protection wise, then?”

“Bill, really?” Draco had expected this talk to move so fast, for Bill to just breach the subject so easily.

“Er—we haven’t really—my mum told me to take things slow—”

“Terrible advice.”

“Shut up, Rolf. Bill, maybe I should take it from here—”

“Because let me tell you, Scorpius, the Weasley virility, that fiery libido, is very difficult to contain—”

“Christ, Bill—”

“—and Albus is half-Weasley, so keep that in mind, though I don’t know about the Malfoys—”

“The Malfoys are just fine, thank you—”

“You’re going to want to learn all about wand movement.”

“Rolf.”

“—look at your my father—Albus’s grandfather: seven children, and most of us with little beasts of our own—”

“It is animalistic at times.”

“Wrap it up, Bill, they’re walking over.”

“Wrapping it up, now that’s a curious Muggle idea—”

“Rolf.”

“—oh, yes, preparation is key, for any scenario and with any person—”

“Preparation, participation, penetration.”

“ROLF.”

“—and quite possibly some perspiration, if you’re doing things right—”

“Okay. Okay!”

That was enough, Draco thought. Scorpius looked utterly aghast.

“Bit inappropriate,” Draco muttered. Ah, well. Harry and Albus were getting nearer. Albus was practically skipping as he approached. Draco turned to look at Scorpius, who was flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I did ask Bill to, perhaps, help me talk to you.”

“But why?” Scorpius said, clearly disturbed by this admission. “You’ve already talked to me! You and Mum both! I wanted to die then, too.”

“Bill’s children are a bit older, and he’s, well, look at him.” Scorpius did, and then looked back at his dad, clearly confused. Growing frustrated, Draco waved his hands in Bill’s direction, trying to get Scorpius to see how effortlessly cool this man was. How sure. How much of a babbling idiot he wasn’t. “I thought… I thought he had better practice with this sort of thing.” Draco’s eyes lingered on Bill a bit longer, and he briefly wondered if a fang earring would make Scorpius more amenable to him.

“Dad, are you in love with Mr. Weasley? Because I’m very loyal to Mum, and—”

“No! What?”

Luckily, a cheerful hello from Albus interrupted them. “Scorp!”

And then they were hugging. Draco could see the tops of his son’s ears growing pinker, and how both boys, confronted in person, for probably the first time since redefining their relationship, this new version of themselves, were quite flustered. They stared at each other, sheepish grins painting their faces.

“Morning, Draco,” said Harry. He was watching, too, looking amused. “Shall we?”

The coffee spot Harry had chosen was… interesting. Even for early in the morning, the building was dark, lit mostly by fairy lights. There was a hodgepodge of furniture—old school desks, mismatched bar stools, vinyl armchairs, and bookcases turned on their sides—functioning as tables and seating. The walls were mostly exposed brick and decorated with dented street signs, worn vehicle plates, and vintage adverts for mechanic shops and garages. At the long bar were various coffee contraptions, some simple—French presses and pour-over drip apparatuses, and others more complex—steel boxes with buttons and levers and multiple spouts, whirring and sputtering and bellowing steam. And in every corner were brightly colored vespas, to which Albus and Scorpius took immediate interest and bounced over to inspect.

“I thought the boys might like it here,” Harry said apologetically, as if Draco himself wouldn’t have liked it there.

“No, it’s… nice,” Draco said. And he smiled. Because he was trying.

They picked a round table underneath a low lamp that Draco thought might fall from the rafters and onto to their heads if someone so much as sneezed too loudly and squeezed in together, their mismatched chairs a Demiguise hair’s breadth apart. In the last few weeks Draco hadn’t sat this close to Harry, with enough time to really look at him. He noticed, with the tiniest satisfaction, that his hair was greying near his temples.

“I miss you,” said Rolf, who usually sat next to Draco but was now seated across from him. He blew a kiss. “Don’t forget about me.”

Scorpius and Albus had turned their chairs outward. Apparently, they had seen a cat stalk across the floor and behind a curtain shoddily hung on one of the walls and concealing the pathway to the kitchen.

“That can’t be sanitary,” Draco said, though no one else probably cared. Rolf had joined the boys in trying to beckon the cat over and Bill was already over at the bar making orders.

“I agree,” muttered Harry.

They all soon had their drinks—cappuccinos and macchiatos and sugary iced coffees topped with entirely too much whipped cream—and were chatting amicably. Albus was pestering Bill to pick a card, any card, and Rolf whooped whenever Albus revealed a matching one from his sleeve, Bill’s wallet, or, most impressively, from under the belly of the cafe cat, who’d come to lay, tail twitching, under their table. Scorpius looked happy to be scratching behind its ears, his snickerdoodle iced coffee clutched in his other hand and already half-empty.

With everyone else distracted, Draco tapped Harry’s arm.

“I have to show you something,” he said. Harry quirked an eyebrow. Draco dug in his pocket before producing several of the same thing. He dropped them in Harry’s open hand.

“You’ve made badges,” Harry said flatly. In gold, were the letters, MMMEM.

“Oh,” Harry said, staring at them. Then the acronym seemed to click. “For the ‘Monday Morning Meeting—?’”

“Yes, yes, we all know the ridiculous name Rolf came up with,” Draco said, waving his hand dismissively. Harry looked back at Draco as if he thought it rich that Draco would call anything ridiculous after making badges of all things. “Go on, tap them!”

Hoping that Harry would remember his skill at badge-making, and the words Potter Stinks flashing in his brain like a glowing marquee, Draco watched as Harry, eyeing the badge warily, subtly retrieved his wand from under the table and gave the little black button a tap.

The glittering letters swirled and dissipated into nothing before reappearing again and forming something new.

“B-F-F?”

BFFs, Draco thought. Plural. Multiple Fs.

“BFF,” Harry said again. He looked at Draco bizarrely. “Why is there a question mark?”

Draco reached out to snatch the badge back, looking offended. “Because I haven’t decided if you lot are my best friends yet!” he snapped, peeved. “Scorpius added this part. He’s, um, a little presumptuous. But if you don’t want—”

“No, no,” Harry said. He was trying, too. Probably. He pinned the badge to the front of his shirt, mumbling something about being grown men, but resigned all the same. “We’ll wear them.”

Draco beamed.

But Harry still had doubts about the purpose of the things. “You really think the boys will be impressed by these?”

“Potter, look.”

Scorpius and Albus were staring at them, Scorpius with his thumbs up at Draco, encouraging, and Albus sitting there, shrugging, wearing the same resigned face as his father.

“Fine.”

Both boys turned to each other again, stifling laughter. Draco thought he also caught an eye roll. “I think I embarrass my son,” he sighed.

“Right there with you.”

“To the ties that bind us.”

Together they listened to Rolf talk about his latest field research and to Bill, who had just come away from a weekend spent fishing with his son and his dad, a man most fascinated by all things Muggle, including competitive angling.

“He brought along seven different fishing poles,” he laughed, “and then taught me and Louis how to use each one.”

Draco thought about grandparents. The idea of them.

“I wonder what that’s like,” he said to Harry. “Having a father to oversee your fathering.”

“Me too,” said Harry. This surprised Draco. But then he thought about it, what he knew about Harry. A dead dad, a Muggle uncle, and a father-in-law. A string of other father figures long gone, too. Maybe that wasn’t enough. And then Harry surprised him again by saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t?”

“Nah. Especially with Albus. He doesn’t tell me anything. I think he hates me half the time. And I just can’t understand him. I, er, envy you actually.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Harry laughed. “Albus goes on and on about you and how much Scorpius loves you.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. So he just sipped his coffee.

“Seriously, though,” said Harry. He was looking right at Draco. The faint chatter of their children played on in the background “You’ve done a good a job.”

“You too,” Draco said. And he meant it.

Harry gave an awkward cough. “So, er, how’s the Manor coming? Or, going?”

“It’s going well,” said Draco. The Manor was empty, its contents sold or donated, and scheduled to be demolished in the coming weeks. With Harry’s help at the Ministry, Draco was able to do in a few weeks what he couldn’t get done alone in the last year. “Thank you.”

Surprisingly, they talked more about that. About Draco’s recent decision to gift the land to a charitable foundation for children and the decision he made long ago to abandon the Manor in the first place.

“My father was furious, of course,” he told Harry. “He wanted me to live there forever, to raise my children there. I raised my voice at him then for the first time in my life: ‘You walk these halls like it’s nothing! Like what we’ve done is nothing!’ He told me I was giving it all up—our family name, our estate, our legacy, or whatever was left of it. I told him, ‘This isn’t giving up, this is letting go,’ and I walked out.”

They talked about Harry’s job and his penchant for ignoring paperwork. (“I just hate it!”)

And they talked about Astoria and Ginny.

“I hear they’re planning to run away together,” Harry joked.

“Don’t worry, you’ll still have me.” And Draco, feeling loose and reckless, winked.

“Ha! Okay…”

“I’m fucking with you.”

“Oh. Good. Could you imagine?”

“I have,” Draco said, his tone completely serious. And then, at Harry’s bewildered expression, said, “I’m fucking with you again, Potter.”

In no time at all, and far too soon for Draco’s liking, it was time to leave. They’d finished their drinks, the boys had run off, hand-in-hand, to explore the rest of the cafe, and Harry was going to be later than usual.

“Ready to go?” Draco called out to his son, but there was no answer. He looked around the cafe. Where had Scorpius gone?—oh.

Well, Scorpius and Albus had found themselves a quiet little corner. They were sat together in a retro armchair, apparently attached at the mouth and too intertwined to have noticed anyone else.

“Ah, pardon—er—boys, if we could just—Harry, help me out here?”

Outside, Draco and Scorpius walked.

“Listen, Scorpius,” Draco said. “I’m sorry if this wasn’t—”

“Dad—”

“No, please let me finish. I know hanging out with me isn’t your thing. But thank you for coming. I want—I want to spend more time with you. I’m afraid I haven’t been there enough, when all I want is to know you, and to teach you how to meet life.”

Draco looked around him, at the Muggle neighborhood where no one knew who he was and then back at his son, who knew what only Draco wanted him to. He thought about fathers, the kind he had, and the kind he wanted to be. He wondered if Scorpius was disappointed that Draco was his.

“Most days,” he went on. “I've wondered if I—my past—already ruined any chance of the universe being good to you. I don't want to be a stain on your future, Scorpius. I don't want you to be ashamed of me.”

Scorpius opened his mouth but Draco continued.

“I want to be the dad you deserve. I’m trying to be that. I want you to have the world.”

“Dad,” Scorpius said again, his face shining and open and his arms coming out to embrace Draco, like he never had before. And although he was no longer a little boy, to Draco, Scorpius still felt small. Behind him, the road was blurry. What was to come, bright. “You’ve given me everything I need.”

“Why are you smiling?” Astoria asked, though she most certainly knew why. Draco was never so transparent, so unperturbed by what someone might think of him expressing the tiniest fraction of joy (and this was certainly bigger than that), and so unafraid and willing to accept whatever came next than he was in that moment, standing in the kitchen with his wife.

“Thank you,” he told her. For coming with him when he wanted to run scared. For the strength to start new friendships. For simply being there. She kissed him, one hand in his hair and the other pushing the sealed envelope into his chest, ever-meddling, ever-caring, and ever-right.

He laughed against her lips.

Astoria told him that she’d meet him back upstairs and left him with the rest of her hot chocolate and the letter sitting heavy in his hand.

Leaning back against the sink, he opened it. Inside was nothing spectacular, just Harry’s musings about Albus, his tenacity, and the unfiltered love he had for Scorpius. Ramblings about Rolf and Bill and the ridiculous things they said. A promise to meet up with Draco and his family on the first of September, so they could see their boys off one last time, and then perhaps get a drink after.

No, nothing spectacular. But life-altering all the same.

Before he went upstairs, Draco spelled the kitchen clean. He put his letter from Harry on the table to read again in the morning. He whistled a goodnight song to his birds asleep in their cages.

He chose to think about his faults another day, and shelved his worry for another time. Of the very worst things, he let go. Draco needed room after all, in his mind and heart, for his family, and his friends, and all the good tomorrows.