Chapter Text
Draco clutches the small, trembling form in his arms against his chest, tight and close, as the two of them lay on a park bench in the dead of night.
The world around them is quiet and empty, but the pounding anxiety of his heart, the curdle in his gut, and the gnawing of insecurity under his skin and over his curved back does not let him sleep, afraid that they will be found, or that someone will come and try to steal away the only thing that's left for him in this horrible world, that someone will recognize his face and try to harm the only thing left that can really hurt him too anymore.
The night is cold, the chill of frost in the air forming goosebumps over his skin and numbing his nose and hands. He has layered numerous clothes over the body in his arms to keep it warm.
"Daddy?" the bundle against his chest whispers, small and tentative.
Draco can not help a quivering kiss to his son's forehead, and tries not to let the quiver of fear and anxiety in his chest reach his voice. "Yes, Scorpius?" He manages to sound calm and steady enough, if not for the tremor of the cold seeping into his shivering muscles.
But he is afraid, and there is no denying it. They have nowhere to go, not the muggle world from where he is barred by the Ministry, for who will allow a Death-Eater entry into the very world their cause had once been to end?
But even without being barred from that world, he and his son have nothing that will make them belong there, no muggle credentials nor the knowledge or guidance to navigate through it.
They don't belong to the Wizarding world either anymore, where Draco will be shunned and abhorred, where they will be unsafe and privy to violence, no certainty that they will not turn their hatred of him to his son, who has already been exposed to enough of it in that small house they'd left behind two weeks ago.
They have no one to turn to, either.
Draco is afraid, but if he doesn't keep his head, then what hope can he give to his son?
"You're cold, Daddy," Scorpius says, high and innocent, with the collapsed syllables of a child still learning to pronounce phonetics. He's wriggling his head out of his arms to look up at him worriedly.
At five years old, his boy already worries too much about things five year old boys should not be worrying about, such as his father being cold or not eating enough or being in pain by the bruises on his ribs, and Draco thinks it's just one of the many ways that he has ruined him as a father.
Draco smiles, his nasal breaths shuddering slightly. "Not very."
At five years old, his boy has also learned that his father lies a lot.
"You keep me warm enough," Draco adds, the words true in all ways but how he means for them to be. It seems that Scorpius is now his only source of warmth and comfort in a life cold and devoid of it. He squeezes him closer, stroking a hand through silk white hair. "Did you know that the best way to keep warm is by huddling together with other people?"
Next to warming charms, at least, but Draco's wand was confiscated and broken ten years ago, and one of the many legislations approved by the then Minister against Death-Eaters was outlawing any dealing of wands to them, among being allowed entry into healthcare centers or any educational institutions (thereby shown that the Minister was unconcerned about being lenient on minors such as him), for security purposes.
Scorpius most probably can only guess what warming charms are. His magic has only just started to show up at this age.
It has mostly shown when Scorpius was afraid. He would rattle all the objects in the room, his eyes wide as he trembled in the doorway, Michael yelling at him until Draco sent Scorpius to his room quickly and diverted Michael's attention once again. When Michael was done with him, Draco cleaned himself up and went to Scorpius' room, knowing he would be lying awake and terrified, waiting to see his father.
Or so that was the dance, for years and years and years. Draco is now living the life that the thought of had once kept him from taking his son and their things and leaving. He took his son and their things and left, and now they are cold and starving and without a home.
Scorpius blinks, quietly observing him for a moment through big eyes that he is still too small for, that he still hasn't grown into. He then burrows his face into Draco's chest again, small hands fisting his shirt.
It's only when Scorpius' breathing evens out, softly squeaking as the air exhales out of his nose, that Draco buries his face into his hair and cries.
...
By the time people were picking up the pieces the war had left in its wake, all the Slytherins had disappeared off the face of the Earth, and that means most of Draco's friends are no longer available or in his life anymore.
Draco's father is in Azkaban, and he and his mother have just had all their property and wealth taken away by the Ministry save for a few thousand Galleons. They purchase a small flat somewhere in a sketchy part of the Knockturn Alley, while Draco looks around for a job to keep him and his mother afloat to not much avail.
A month after, his father is given the Dementor's Kiss in Azkaban, and his mother falls apart in her grief and despair. She falls and she never gets back up ever again, and so it falls on Draco to keep them both standing.
For a long time, it doesn't work. There aren't a lot of shops left in Knockturn Alley, many of them closed down due to the Aurors looking around, keep an eye out for any and all suspicious activity in search of escapee Death-Eaters, and Knockturn Alley has always been full of suspicious activity. Therefore, not a lot of jobs are available there either, and by jobs, he means those that didn't require NEWTs and still paid an acceptable salary.
He can't go back to Hogwarts to complete his education anymore. Not too long ago, the Aurors had tracked him down and had taken a strand of his hair after the new legislations against Death-Eaters had been passed, only a month after his trial. Thus, from what little knowledge Draco has on the muggle studies regarding DNA, he gathers that his hair was used to detect his identity so that he may be denied access from all the places that would do well to have extreme safety measures and precautions against Death-Eaters. Hogwarts, obviously, is one of those places, among other institutions of magical education, the Ministry itself, and healthcare clinics.
Professor McGonagall's letter of deep and sincere apologies find him some days after the laws have been announced. Naturally, there is not much she can do about it, but Draco appreciates it nonetheless. The Head of Gryffindor and now new Headmistress of Hogwarts had never been fond of him during his school years, and he imagines she likes him even less now after being a crucial component in causing the first round of deaths and demolition on her school, but she has still somehow found it in her heart to wish him the best, and Draco feels a part of his heart soften towards her for this.
Not having much luck close to their residency, Draco moves his search for work out into the places where he is fairly certain that he will not be welcomed, but the thought of his broken mother and their trickling wealth forces him to brave into those parts of the world anyway.
He is accepted into one job by a kindly old witch as an assistant shopkeeper of Helga's Hellebores, related to all things botanical, but his newly turned luck, or lack thereof, strikes soon enough when Helga's Disillusionment Charms wears off at the wrong time and he is recognized. Hiring a Death-Eater as a worker is very clearly bad for business, which will be bad for his own salary, but moreover he admires Helga too much to cost her her livelihood, so he resigns and tells her to tell anyone who asks that she was unaware of his identity, that he had deceived her as well. He hopes no one will wonder or speculate on this too much, considering he doesn't have the wand to cast any Disillusionment Charms. Helga is rather old though, so that might help the story she'll tell.
Thus, his desperate attempts to hold him and his mother above water continue, to no avail. It's the same response everywhere, in varying degrees of unkindness, anger and fear; either that they will not let someone like Draco work with them, or that no one will want to come into a place where someone like Draco works.
By the end of the next two years, he and his mother are close to running out. His mother manages to convince some old acquaintance of hers to lend them money, just enough to keep them scraping by for perhaps another year, and the relief of this comes at the price of one more burden on his shoulders, to pay back the loan.
Draco finds his mother on her bed with an empty vial clutched loosely in her hand one morning, and her old acquaintance never comes back to ask for her money again.
Draco stops looking for work after that.
He stops everything.
He just—
Stops.
He stops eating and sleeping and showering. He falls like his mother did once and he doesn't get back up for a long, long time.
So he has lost his entire family by now, and sometimes (most of the time), he thinks about going to find them again.
On the streets of Diagon Alley where Draco goes looking for a sleeping draught at an apothecary, he sees Potter with his girlfriend, his friends and a small infant that could change his hair colour one day. Potter is laughing beside girl Weasley, and Weasley is standing beside him, grinning and saying something to the baby. The infant looks at Weasley and then changes his hair colour to ginger red, and while Granger, girl Weasley and Potter burst into surprised laughter, Weasley staring on baffled, the baby remains unaware to the amusement of the four surrounding him.
For a reason Draco cannot fathom at all, he walks away unsettled and heavy in a chest that has mostly been hollow for months, and after that he is perhaps much more easily irritated on his trip to the apothecary than usual. He can't remember what he exactly said, or how he said it, but he made the man behind the counter rather angry, if he wasn't already by the mere dawning realization of his identity. Add to that Draco's impertinence and sharp, unkind snipes, and it is shortly followed by the potioneer pulling out his wand and threatening him out the door.
He goes to his little sad grey flat and falls into the makeshift bed on the floor, beside the small bed his mother used to sleep in and where he found her cold and pale and still once, not too long ago (could never quite bring himself to look at that bed anymore, at the ghosts of her memory still haunting him).
Draco does not let himself cry.
...
In the summer of 2002, Draco falls in love with a man named Michael Lancaster.
He is four years older than Draco's twenty-one, and he has green eyes and curly dark brown hair. He doesn't wear round glasses and his eyes are smaller and his hair is a little too rumpled and long, and he is broader with a square jaw. He is nice and sweet, but not too noble. He knows who Draco is and he loves him anyway, so Draco loves him too.
They meet when Michael bumps into Draco and causes him to drop a bag full of calming draught ingredients. Before Draco can snap in annoyance, Michael quickly apologizes and leans down to help him pick up his things. He stands up and hands him his bag, and when Michael looks up and sees his face, he stops and just stares for an entire moment.
Draco is frozen, not too inclined to snipe at the first man to show any kindness towards him in a long while, but also feeling the walls come up around him, ready to snap back if needed. He waits for vile names and insults, and then wonders why he is waiting for that.
As he is about to turn around and walk away, before Michael could call him something that hurt, Michael quickly shakes himself, like breaking out of a trance, and looks away, and he is mumbling, "sorry, you're just very…"
Draco pauses and narrows his eyes in a sort of defensive snarl. "What was that?"
Michael's eyes snap up at him then, and he looks charmingly sheepish in some way that calls another name to his mind distantly. "Beautiful. You're beautiful. And this is weird. I should just go."
Draco should have let him go right then and there, but he didn't.
In the next three months, after countless dates and nights spent together, Draco sells his little sad and grey flat so that he can move in with Michael into a small house. He is in love, he is loved, he isn't alone and he no longer worries about surviving on scraps. Things seem to be getting better, finally.
Two months later, they marry quiet and beautiful on a beach, like a fairytale story. It is just the two of them there and the priest that officiates their marriage.
Later, Draco will realize why they never invited anyone to their wedding. It is not because Michael disliked his dysfunctional family and because Draco didn't have anyone to invite, and because he wanted it to be special and intimate with just the two of them, but because Michael simply didn't want anyone to know who he was pledging himself to.
Later, Draco will wonder if Michael had known that he had the only key to the locked door that was Draco's life, that Draco had nothing but Michael, and there was nowhere he could run.
He should have run anyway.
Draco learns things fast. He learns that Michael has a habit of being very handsy when nobody's around, which Draco doesn't mind at all. He likes black coffee and turkey sandwiches and pot roast. He likes the taste of Acid Pops, which Draco doesn't understand at all, but Michael says that it hardly hurts him anymore to eat those. He doesn't like dancing or cooking, and has scrawly and wide handwriting. He has a dark sense of humour that Draco can appreciate. Draco learns that he is messy and lazy, a contrast to his own tidiness and restlessness, and he is logical and analytical, knows how to look calm even when he's not, knows how to make his opposition look and feel stupid, and he is stubborn and doesn't always know how to take no for an answer, feels inexplicably entitled at times, is impulsive, opinionated and expressive about it, unpunctual and virile.
Michael is impatient and quick to temper, so very quick, but so is Draco, and those are some of the traits that they have in common. They clash and fight, and sometimes in his anger, Michael says terrible things. Terrible, terrible things, things that hurt far worse than they do on the streets when they are said by strangers instead. Draco learns that it is rather easy to make him back down in a fight, because all Michael has to do is bring up his past and Draco will clam up, frowning in some mix of betrayal and hurt and shame.
But Michael apologizes and promises he didn't mean it, and he kisses Draco until he smiles again, and Draco didn't think anyone could ever love him again but Michael loves him, and so Draco loves him anyway, despite it all. He is happy for the most part anyway, isn't he? Happier than he had been in three years, even if they have their difficult times.
Ten months in, they decide to have a child, mostly on Michael's desire. Draco is a sad fool too in love to say no and too desperate for a tenderness that he doesn't believe would be given to him a second time.
And later, Draco will understand that if this one pivotal decision hadn't been made at this point in his life, he would have left a long time ago, one way or another, and that Michael knew this long before he did.
Draco brews the fertility potion himself and carries the being that will one day be the only reason he is still bothering to breathe and live.
…
"You know, I work hard as an accountant at Gringotts," Michael says after a long, comfortable silence, lying down on the bed with an arm around Draco, both of them satiated and content. Draco hums in acknowledgment of his words. "It seems a bit unfair that all you do is sit around here at home."
Draco raises an eyebrow, shifting his head against his chest to lift his gaze to him. "I'm unclear as to what you want me to do about that, Michael. You already know that no one is going to hire me for anything."
"I don't know." Michael shrugs. "Make yourself useful around the house or something, you know."
"Like a servant," Draco drawls.
Michael scoffs, looking away as he bites the corner of his lip, like he doesn't want to say what he's about to say, but can't help himself. "Like someone that doesn't leech off of their lover and offers nothing."
"Excuse me?" Draco pushes himself up on his elbows to look down at Michael, his eyes narrowed as the flush of anger and embarrassment simultaneously fills his face and chest. "Right now, I'm carrying a bloody—"
Michael rolls his eyes. "I'm out there working all day. What do you do, except spend my money, Draco?" he says. "Is it too much to ask if I want you to be of some use too in return?"
"Oh, well, I didn't realize this was a bloody bargain rather than a relationship!" Draco grits out, a satirical, mirthless smile that tries to hide the burn in his eyes. He sits up fully, gathering his clothes up into his hands. " I don't even have a wand, Michael. You do, and your wand doesn't obey me at all. All you have to do is wave it around and say some words for everything."
"Right, so I come back tired from work—" Michael snarls.
Draco shrugs on his shirt, snorting derisively. "Well, all you do is sit there and—and count Galleons or whatever. And it's hardly difficult to take care of this bloody house when it is so small that you don't even have room to breathe in it!"
That is the first time Michael hits him.
Michael apologizes for that soon after, says, "I'm sorry. It just seemed like you were being very ungrateful and unfair, you know? I just got so mad, and you know I'm rather quick to temper. I'm sorry. It won't happen again." And then he kisses Draco until he smiles again and forgives him, and that's that.
Draco supposes that, perhaps he was sounding rather ungrateful and unfair, if he is being objective and honest. He was surviving on hardly anything before he'd found Michael and had moved in with him, so his anger wasn't entirely unwarranted if he thinks about it with a clear head.
Michael's mother was a muggleborn, so he has a lot of muggle items and supplies around the house that Draco has no idea how to use. Eventually, however, he has to learn. So he does.
…
Scorpius is three, and Michael takes his favourite dragon toy because it makes too many roaring sounds and little harmless fire breaths, and he tells him that either he breaks it himself, or I'll break your daddy's face instead. How does that sound?
Draco held a small, warm and pink bundle in his arms three years ago and learned that becoming a father can have the strangest of effects on even the coldest of hearts.
It has made him boundlessly selfless, and even brave.
And it is all for this one small being that came into the world through him and smiled at him before he smiled at anything else. Draco has never been selfless, or brave, but for Scorpius, he can be anything.
Draco once watched huge green eyes open to stare up at him, a pink rosebud mouth, that looked a lot like his own, curving into a drowsy smile, his own nose, but smaller, wrinkling in distaste at the too bright lights, and he touched his little chin with a feather-light finger and whispered to him, you are my everything, and there is nothing that I wouldn't do for you.
And that means taking whatever it means for Draco should Scorpius choose to keep his dragon toy, because he simply does not want his son to lose something that makes him happy, and certainly in a life already so scarce of it. He is three years old and he shouldn't have to choose between things like these.
So Draco tells his son calmly, staring Michael right in the eye, "Scorpius, take your toy and go to your room. I'll be there in a minute."
Scorpius stares, wide-eyed, shaking and shaking and shaking, always shaking whenever Michael is even in the room. He looks down at his toy, pink rosebud lips crumpling downward as tears glisten in those big eyes that have already seen too much for a child his age, and then looks up to Draco, just looks at him for the longest moment. Draco smiles softly at his little boy and shakes his head in a it's okay, everything is okay, suddenly much less afraid in the face of whatever violence is to rain down on him, the stillness of a calm borne of love settling the storm of fear in his gut.
But Scorpius throws that dragon toy against the wall, and he runs to Draco crying, silently because he has learned a while ago that making too much noise means terrible things, and Draco's heart shatters into pieces with the jostle of catching his son in his arms.
It's just one more memory to the list that reminds him of his failures and faults as a father, one more way that Scorpius has to be ruined, has to have all the childlike joy and innocence sucked out of him.
That night, Draco thinks about leaving, like many times before, like whenever Michael uses his sick little mind games on Scorpius. Draco has not let him turn his wand or his hands on his child, not once, not ever, but sometimes he cannot protect him from things like these.
Draco observes his son in silence for a moment, clutched to his side in their bed as his fingers run through his silky hair languidly.
Two months ago, when Draco's nightmares began to grow too loud, Michael kicked him out of their bed and told him to stop with your fucking crying or go sleep somewhere else.
Draco didn't know what to do, so he stumbled out of the room and slept on the couch. He woke up again to Scorpius whimpering in his sleep from his room, the sounds much clearer now that he was out of the bedroom with a closed door, and he'd gone in to soothe him to sleep again. Draco fell asleep there that night and Scorpius hadn't let him sleep anywhere else ever since, his small hand clutching Draco's own whenever he got up to leave at night.
He thinks of leaving, but where will they go?
Draco has no hope of getting a job with his image and status as a Death-Eater, no hope of earning his own money and getting his own place and putting food on the table for Scorpius without Michael. There isn't anyone that will bother with him and by extension, with his son. He and Scorpius can leave right now, but they will be cold and starving and homeless.
It seems that the day Scorpius Abraxas Malfoy came into this world as Draco's son was the day he was damned to a merciless and unkind life, and sometimes Draco thinks it would have been kinder for Scorpius to have been born somewhere else, somewhere better and to someone better.
But Scorpius is his whole world, and as unkind as it may be, he cannot bear to live this life without him.
"Pot," Scorpius says, but it sounds like 'Paat' because of the childlike pronunciation.
Draco smiles, even as it pulls on the burning purple swell on the corner of his mouth. He tugs Scorpius closer into the side of his ribs, ruffles his silk white curly hair and kisses the top of it. "Pot it is, then."
And so begin the tales of a young boy with round glasses and bright green eyes, just like yours, Scorpius, and his rumpled hair is as black as raven birds. He is a little thick in the head, yes, but he is kind and brave and far too noble for his own good, and he is the boy that defeated a dark and evil wizard when he was no more than a baby.
But the evil wizard comes back, again and again and again, in different forms. Draco regales his son with stories of Pot and the man with two faces, and then Pot with the big snake in the hidden room, and several other tales.
One day, the evil wizard comes back in a body of his own, and this time, he looks like a human snake that has no nose. They call him the Dark Lord and nobody says his name because they are too afraid of him. But not Pot. Pot isn't afraid of him. If he is, he doesn't show it, and he always says the evil wizard's name fearlessly. The story goes on and on about war and heroism and victories of light against dark, more hopeful and bright and awe-inspiring than it ever was.
In the end, Pot, with the help of his friends Weasel and the Smart Witch, deceives the Dark Lord into thinking he has managed to win, that Pot was defeated by him, and the Dark Lord, so lost in his arrogance and joy at his false victory, doesn't see this, and this becomes his downfall. But Pot's nobility and heroism doesn't end here, because after that, Pot also puts a lot of bad men, who worked for the Dark Lord, away too.
(One day, his son will learn that he was one of those bad men, and Draco doesn't know what he will do then.)
Scorpius' eyes are half-mast by the end of the stories, and on the edge of sleep, he mumbles around a drowsy hesitant near-whisper, "Daddy?"
Draco hums inquisitively, pushing silk-white curls up between his fingers, massaging the scalp at the base of his small head gently.
"Sometimes I think of Pot- Pot puttin' Papa away."
…
Draco sits at the table with Scorpius on his thigh, his hands trembling around the spoon it is gripping. The mashed peas and carrots spill out as Scorpius' thrashing and his own shaking tips the cutlery to and fro. He is nearly pleading, "Scorpius, come on. What did I say? Growing boys need to eat their veggies."
Scorpius shakes his head, writhing this way and that as he tries to free himself from Draco's arm around him. "No, Daddy. No. I don't like it."
"Scorpius," Draco warns, but his voice is quivering, everything of him quivering inside and out.
"No!" Scorpius yells.
"Scorpius," Draco grits out, trying not to snap, to scream, to—"For Merlin's sake, you can't survive only on the things you like. You need all the nutrients if you want to grow big."
Scorpius makes a frustrated, whining sound. He arches his back, rigid as he slides out of Draco's grip. "I don' like it, Daddy."
Perhaps it is just all the past four years accumulating together and weighing heavy on his swollen and raw heart, all of it hitting all at once, or maybe it's the sound of Michael's disparaging jibes and vicious taunts and names echoing in his head and beating him down inside just before he left for work, or just pure, utter exhaustion because he didn't sleep last night. Not that sleep makes him any less exhausted. Some days it's like he can sleep for a thousand years and still wake up feeling like his bones are made of lead.
Perhaps it is all of it.
But the spoon clatters out of his shaking hand and onto the plate, and he sets Scorpius down onto his feet with his other shaking arm, and he is just shaking and shaking and shaking all over. Draco pushes the plate of food away quickly and puts his elbows onto the tabletop and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, holding his head in his hands as one hard, gasping sob escapes him, and then he just sits there.
For the longest time, he just sits there, the only sounds his quick and heavy and shuddering breaths as he fought to control an inexplicable tide of panic and despair washing down his insides, the only movement the tremors of his back and arms and shoulders.
"Daddy?" Scorpius whispers.
Draco's breaths tremble even more, growing even heavier. He knows he should move. He knows he is upsetting his son by being upset like this. He knows he needs to stop and act like the father and not the child, but he can't breathe right or stop shaking. He can't move and he can't speak and he thinks that if he does try to move or speak, he will end up crying or screaming or just losing his whole damned mind.
"Daddy, I'm so'y."
He can hear his son, and he can feel his little hands on his biceps, shaking him. He can't move. He can't speak. He is trembling and his breaths are hitching in low, short and frantic gasps, and all he can do is sit there and try to keep it together.
"Daddy, I'm so'y." Scorpius shakes his shoulder, his voice trembling and afraid. "I'm so'y. I eat the veg'ies."
Draco tries to breathe, deep and slow, and he does it over and over until he can feel some of the pressure in his throat and his chest fade. Scorpius' breaths are hitching, and he's weeping, his chin wobbling and scrunched, and Draco would have fallen apart all over again for being the one to make his son cry if he didn't need to take care of him first. So when he finally calms down some, a bit further away from the edge of losing his mind, he pulls himself away from the table, hands running down his face hard to ground himself.
"It's okay," Draco murmurs. He picks Scorpius up by the underarms and places him on his lap and folds his arms around him. "Everything's okay. We're okay. Look." He smiles feebly down at him, wiping Scorpius' tears with the flat of his fingers. He kisses his face, once, twice and thrice until Scorpius' breaths slow slightly, but his rosebud lips are still crumpled downward, tears glistening over his eyes.
"We can leave the veggies for today," Draco murmurs in some desperate need to compensate, his nose smushing fondly into Scorpius' cheek before retreating back to look at him. "But only for today, okay?"
"I eat."
Draco's throat flexes, the burn returning to his eyes along with the burn of sick shame and guilt.
It will later be a sign of one more of his failure that Scorpius will hardly trouble him with anything ever again.
That night, as Draco puts Scorpius down to bed, he hears Scorpius mumble into his shoulder, quiet and tentative, "I love you, Daddy."
Draco stills for a moment.
Usually, it's the other way around, Draco saying it first, and Scorpius responding with his baby-toothed smile and an, I love you too, Daddy.
Draco smiles. "I love you too, Scorpius."
He climbs into bed, lays down beside Scorpius and puts one arm around his little body. He shifts a bit, adjusting his own body on the mattress to make himself comfortable. When he finally settles down, he looks up at Scorpius, and they play their game of Did You Know, where they can each tell the other something new to learn about anything.
"Did you know that we were named after groups of stars?" Draco says.
"How many sta's?"
"So many," Draco says with a smile, in a feigned breath of awe, and then begins to name some of them. Antares, Theta Scorpii, Upsilon Scorpi, Gamma Draconis, Thuban. He laughs softly and kisses Scorpius' forehead when Scorpius repeats each one with him and can't properly say the names due to his childlike pronunciation. Aantayes, Scorpius repeats, with a hard bob of his head, his curls bouncing, as if he can make his tongue cooperate by doing this. Up-ee-on 'copi. Tuwan.
In the end, when they've named almost all of the stars of their constellations together, they lay quiet and content, each in their own heads for some time.
Draco shifts his head as he turns to look at Scorpius, his cheek touching the pillow. "Did you know that…" He pauses, his throat convulsing, and it sounds audible in the pure silence, besides Michael's steady, even breathing from the other bedroom.
Scorpius is staring back at him, in wait of something new to learn, a beautiful and intelligent child. He has Draco's mind. He has Draco's eyes and nose and mouth and hair. He is his. All his. All he has of Michael are his wild curls and the green of his eyes, and sometimes he looks into them and imagines that they aren't Michael's, but someone else's.
Draco leans his head closer, biting the quiver out of his lips before he breathes a laden and shuddering exhale, and he whispers, "You are my star in a big black sky."
Draco thinks Scorpius won't understand what that means, hopes he won't, because it is not something that little kids should understand at all.
But his boy is four years old, and sometimes he smiles only with his lips and not with his eyes, and it might just mean that he understands much more than little kids should.
...
Draco leaves the morning after the unthinkable happens.
Michael does not lay a hand on Scorpius, and he never will for as long as Draco is around, but he does do something equally vile.
"Let me take Scorpius to his room first," Draco says, trying to appear calm and collected as he clenches his fists at his sides, trying not to let his voice tremble, or his body tremble, because Scorpius is standing in the doorway and he should not know that his father doesn't always feel as strong as he tells him he is.
Scorpius accidentally knocked off an old vase, of some sentimental and ancestral value that Draco was not made aware of before, when they played blindfolded tag on Scorpius' insistence. His son has him all wrapped around his little finger, and even afraid of something exactly like this happening, he did not say no, and that is his fault.
Even so, as much as Draco wants to tell Michael to go fuck himself, that it's hardly an issue when you own a wand and are one word away from fixing it, he knows that the problem is not that. The problem is that Michael likes feeling big and powerful and in control of things, because he is small and powerless and without control everywhere else, and so he needs to hurt someone even worse off to feel better about himself and his pathetic life.
"No, you know what, let your useless little devil spawn watch what happens to his scum father when he fucks up," Michael snarls, and he grabs Scorpius by his thin arm and drags him roughly into the room and locks the doors, and the strangled whimper that tears out of his son may either be of fear or pain or both.
Draco sees red all the same. The white-hot rage explodes in his head, coursing flames through veins and into his chest. His body is tensed even more in an entirely different way, his fingernails cutting into the palm of his skin.
"And then he'll think twice next—"
Draco does not hear the rest. By the next second, he has crossed the room and thrown a fist right across Michael's face so hard he's slammed head-first into the wall. It is one more thing that Scorpius had to see that no child should.
It isn't going to bear very good consequences for himself, no, but Draco hardly gives a damn right now. If anything, there is satisfaction and relief loosening something in him, as if he has gotten something he'd yearned for a very long time, something that has built and built and built to the point of being suffocating.
But wands always win, and it isn't long before Michael has him pinned down under one, bloody and bruised.
And it has all happened right in front of Scorpius' eyes. In the blaring sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears in time to the residual throbbing of his wounds, he hears his son's voice, crying and screaming, for Michael to stop, to not hurt, promises that he will never do anything like that again. Promises that he will never be a kid and make mistakes that hardly mean anything just like every other kid.
"Scorpius, it's okay." Blood dribbles out of his mouth. He spits it out, trying to hide his battered face away. He wants to see his son, but right now he is afraid his face will just scare him even more. "Just look away. You don't have to see this. Close your eyes, like when we sleep, right? Close your eyes."
Michael grabs him by the hair, drags him over to the space between the bed and the wall, and bends him over.
When the realization strikes, Draco can no longer be as strong as he tells Scorpius he is, it doesn't even hurt, and how can it hurt when I have you and your kisses with me, and can only manage a shaky whisper of, "Michael, what are you—"
Michael does not answer, and he goes on with no intention of stopping. Draco thrashes against the weight of his hand and body on him, wild and desperate.
"Michael, what the fuck?" Draco yells, panicked and terrified and trembling, finally trembling. "Let me get my son out of here, please, he doesn't need to see this—
Michael does not listen.
"Michael, please," Draco sobs, shaking and crying. "Merlin, please, not in front of him—"
Scorpius did not understand what had happened, but Draco can no longer tell him that his father is strong and that nothing ever hurts when he has his boy there with him.
Sometimes it only hurts worse.
That night, Draco holds Scorpius a bit tighter and closer than usual, and he can't stop kissing his hair, and he tries not to cry because he isn't supposed to cry in front of Scorpius but he cries anyway because Scorpius keeps shaking and shaking and shaking and he won't speak. Draco tells him all the tales of Pot and tells him he is smartbravestronggood I love you more than anything in the world, okay? I love you so much I'm here I'm here I'm here and sings his mother's lullaby, over and over, until Scorpius finally falls asleep.
…
The next morning, when Michael has gone for work, Draco takes his son and their things and leaves.
...
In an empty space leading out into an alleyway, Draco clutches Scorpius on the hip of his crossed legs and against his chest, shows him dragons made of little balls of flaming light with wandless magic, and hums a long distant tune that reminds him of his mother's sweet and soft voice, that brings to mind an image of her sitting beside him on the bed and singing to him, her black curls falling over the shoulders of her nightgown as she smiled down at Draco like he was her whole world, just like Scorpius is Draco's whole world.
He sways his son in his arms and murmurs the melody of a lullaby, rough and slightly off-tune.
Cities will fall
under the weight of my love
Scorpius' head is tipped back, gaze fixated up at him. He is quiet and droopy-eyed with oncoming slumber, trying to stay awake so that he can hear his father sing for him. He still hasn't spoken a word since that night, and that had been four nights ago.
I will place you on the stars if
the world never felt like enough
Draco wants his son to get to sleep, so that he can sleep too and perhaps forget the gnaw of hunger in his gut, like it's devouring itself upon finding nothing else. Perhaps it won't let him sleep at all. Perhaps the best he can get tonight is a light slumber of cold, hard discomfort and his body begging for food.
He has managed to scrape up some money or food by some questionable methods; stealing off of grocery marts, pickpocketing with the help of wandless magic--- prostitution, the only options left to a man that has insufficient qualifications and, even regardless, that no one will ever hire for a proper job. He's fed Scorpius twice today, but his own last meal was yesterday morning, and it is leaving him faint and light-headed now.
I will bring down the sun for you
to give you warmth
I will pull down the moon for you
if you're afraid of the dark
Scorpius' nose is pressed into his chest, his small body fully leaning against his own. He is squeaking softly when he exhales air, his breaths lilting and even and soothing in its rhythm and familiarity. Draco slowly and carefully lays down, keeping Scorpius' body on his own chest. He is far too small and light for a boy his age, but the weight on Draco's chest along with the bruises and fatigue make it somewhat difficult to breathe. His own body is softer than the ground, however. He lays one protective hand on his son's back, the other loose and light over his shoulders.
His last thoughts, before he falls asleep, are of his mother tonight. He wonders if she is watching him, watching them, if she's fallen in love with her sweet grandson the way Draco has, and if she is disappointed and sad over what Draco has turned out to be.
"Yes, my love, I will ruin the world for you," Draco murmurs quietly to the sleeping boy on his chest, slurring and cracking as sleep tugs at his mind. His eyes slowly close upon the sight of a big black sky, one little star glowing high above him. " And I'll do it again and again and again. "
...
Draco finds men and women, hides Scorpius somewhere safe and tells him to stay put. Ever the untroublesome child, he listens and stays right where he is until Draco comes back with some money in his pockets.
The first time he comes back with a bruise on his cheek, Scorpius cries at the sight of it, and it seems, even after getting away from that house, Draco isn't quite done ruining him.
"Hey. Hey, come now, what are you crying for, huh?" Draco frowns, wiping at Scorpius' tears with his fingers and kissing his nose. "I just walked into a wall, that's all. It was really dark there."
There are more fresh tears rolling down Scorpius' cheeks. He frames Draco's face in his little hands and presses a kiss to his wound, just like Draco did when Scorpius used to scrape his knees on the carpet of Michael's house. Something shifts over his skin, the throb of the bruise fading. Scorpius' face lights up through his tears, because the wound is gone when Draco brushes his fingers against it. Draco grins, so soft that there's only a small glimpse of teeth between his lips, and cranes forward to nuzzle their noses together. "My boy is talented and smart, isn't he?"
The second time it happens, it is worse because the man remembered his face a little too clearly and, this time, Draco can't tell his son that he walked into a wall because his boy is too smart for his own good, and he knows often enough when his father lies. When Scorpius' desperate kisses all over his face do not heal him this time, Draco pulls him into his chest quickly upon his breakdown in frantic tears.
It seems everything comes at the price of pain these days.
...
By the third week, Scorpius falls sick.
It is magical, certainly. It seems to affect Scorpius' magic. It hurts him when Draco tries to perform wandless magic, as if he is highly sensitive to it even if the spells are unrelated to his attempts at healing, but even without it, it leaves Scorpius in a fiery sort of pain and discomfort.
Draco knows he won't be allowed there, but maybe his son will be, so he gathers up the small body in his arms and his things and makes an hours long trek over to St. Mungos on foot. It is times like these that he wishes he still had his wand with him.
He gets there exhausted and ready to pass out, but he is turned away, some alarm sounding off as soon as he tries to walk through the entrance and is barricaded from entering further. It must have detected his Dark Mark, he knows it does that, but it doesn't explain why Scorpius can't get through.
A passing nurse sees him and comes over on the other side of the barrier.
"Please. Please, my son." Draco is trying not to cry or panic, has been trying not to cry and panic for a long while and if this doesn't work, then this might just be the last straw. His legs hurt, his heart pounding rapidly, and his knees are about to buckle. He swallows hard. The rise of controlled emotion in his voice makes him sound clearer and stronger this time, "He's sick. I—he's in pain. Maybe if—i-if there's a way that—
The nurse has a blank and cryptic expression on his face.
"These wards are placed by the Ministry. It is really out of our hands to allow you or your son in," he explains, clinically impassive. "Even so, treating your kind is illegal. It can lead to an investigation and cost anyone involved their careers."
"My son is not a Death-Eater!" Draco hisses in a snarl, fury burning raw and hot in his chest, as he slams one hand hard against the barrier. Scorpius whimpers against his shoulder. "He has a right to be treated, you bloody bastards!"
"The wards seem to imply otherwise. I'm sorry." He looks rueful, but nowhere near as he would have been if it were someone else. "But I'm sure it's nothing serious, only a case of a harmless and common magical fever that's been rather prevalent in the air these days. You have to leave before we'll have to resort to manually escorting you away from here."
He understands the laws, even understands their hatred and resentment against Draco and the Death-Eaters, but how one can be so unsympathetic to a child, no matter whose, this Draco does not understand.
By the third day of his fever, Scorpius is even worse than before. He isn't getting enough to eat, but what little he is, he can't keep down. Scorpius is growing weaker, and he is in so much pain that he cries himself exhausted from it. Draco holds him and gives him body massages that only seem to help for as long as they are being given.
He holds Scorpius in his arms, finally, finally asleep, and gulps down his terror and tears, holding him just a bit closer.
And he considers it that day. Going back to Michael. He feels sick to his gut at the thought, but he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know what this is. And what if it's deadly? What if Scorpius doesn't—Merlin, what if he—
If Draco loses his star, all he will be left with is a big black sky, and he doesn't know what he will do then.
He doesn't know what he will do.
On that very day, he finds Harry Potter.