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Oct. 11th, 2008 02:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beachlassFive Times Draco Malfoy Said “I Love You”
Neither Draco, nor anything else in this story belongs to me.
Rating: Mature for references
(I)
The first time Draco said “I love you” to Astoria was at their wedding rehearsal. He was drunk, and sitting in an upholstered chair in the narthex; a chair likely meant for frail faithful grannies on Sunday mornings, but just the right softness for grooms-to-be who’d been a little too vigorously bottoming in a club back room the night before. Draco’s eyes were drifting shut as he listened to the priest earnestly explain that the wedding party, including the groom, especially the groom, needed to be sober for the wedding the next day. The priest turned to Greg, looking more sturdy than the stone wall against which he leant, and tried his luck convincing him that best man duties involved delivering a sober groom to the church. Draco considered the priest’s ass. Nice and round, softly framed in his dark denims, and Draco didn’t bother raising his eyes when the priest turned around. Nice package in front too, and finally he looked up (nice chest under the severe black shirt, flushed face about the dog collar) and leered.
The priest spluttered. There was something about “duty, family, sacred covenant, and honest intentions” but Draco wasn’t really listening to anything until he heard Astoria’s heels clicking across the parquet floor.
“Draco” she said brightly, and Draco straightened in his chair and actually opened his eyes properly to see Astoria, with a slight man trailing behind with an armful of flowers. “This is the nice young man I found to help with the flowers.”
The nice young man looked an awful lot like someone Draco had seen on his knees in the back room the night before, especially as he was starting to flush and oh yes, what was Astoria up to? Flushing, and not looking at Draco or Blaise, who was not so discreetly drinking from his flask by the sanctuary doors. Starting to flush and looking at the priest, who’d gone white, and to whom Astoria was now saying “And I hope we’re not going to have any trouble tomorrow?”
“Astoria, I love you” blurted out Draco, rising to his feet smoothly (not that drunk, see?) and kissing her cheek.
“Try to be more discreet, my dear” she replied, taking his arm and leading him away. “By the time we need to arrange a christening, I might not have time to blackmail the priest.”
(II)
There was never been anything more precious than this. Soft, bald little pointy head, perfect tiny fingers and toes, and Draco ducked his head down to the sleepy bundle in his arms and would face down Dark Lords, would burn the Manor to the ground, would write the next Prophet tribute to the Potter-Weasleys, would do anything to protect his son. “Scorpius, Scorpius” he crooned, in a voice he’d never used before “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
(III)
When Narcissa was dying, Draco threw up every morning in the first floor bathroom at St. Mungo’s. He started carrying a toothbrush and a small tube of cinnamon flavoured toothpaste in his bag, along with a novel to read aloud to Narcissa as she drifted in and out of consciousness, floated on anti-pain potions. He brought in a brightly coloured cotton blanket from home, brought flowers from the gardens, brought sheet music from the conservatory and sang softly to her, held her once delicate, now swollen hand.
And still she floated away.
When it had been three days since she’d last called him by name, when her arms were turning dark with bruises, when the night nurse said that he might want to consider spending the night, because it might not be long now, he cried.
He laid his head against the metal sidebar of Narcissa’s bed and softly cried beside the sunken body of his once elegant mother. “I love you, Mama.” he whispered hoarsely, pushing limp hair from her face. “I love you.”
(IV)
Greg had his own guest room at the Manor. Pansy preferred the large blue suite at the end of the guest wing when she came for visits. Astoria’s friends were more numerous, more frequent guests, and stayed in the smaller, more modern rooms. They had elaborate dinners, and played complicated card games and Draco didn’t really care as long as they stayed out of his library and billiards room.
One night, coming up to his room, Draco ran into one of Astoria’s friends in the upstairs hall in the family wing. Richard was barefoot, hair mussed and wearing soft sleeping pants. Draco frowned, but Richard smiled and spoke softly and slipped right inside Draco’s defenses. “Looking for you.” Richard whispered into Draco’s ear, following that surprising statement with a wet tongue in Draco’s ear, which was unexpected enough to flutter Draco’s eyes shut, so he didn’t see Astoria sliding her bedroom door shut.
Richard slipped into Draco’s bed once or twice on every visit after that. He would push Draco with sure hands until Draco was sprawled across his sheets, eager and unsure. It went on for months, until one cool February morning, Draco came down for breakfast and found Astoria’s trunks and luggage in the main hall.
She was pulling on long warm gloves, and twitching the fingers into place while Richard gave instructions to the house elves about the luggage.
Draco stopped short, hand clenching on the banister. Astoria looked up at him on the stairs, and her mouth pulled down at one side. “We’re leaving.” And just like that, he knew, and his legs crumpled under him until he was sitting on the third to last step of the long sweeping staircase.
“But I love you” Draco said without thinking. Richard wouldn’t look at him, and reached for the floo powder on the mantel.
(V)
Draco had a favorite pacing pattern in the Headmistress’ office at Hogwarts. He’d established it sometime around Scorpius’ spectacular mid-air collision in 3rd year, and perfected it during the week Scorpius and Albus had gone missing inside the castle researching their history project on the ghosts of Hogwarts. From the fireplace, past the doorway, across the blue carpet runner and past the desk. A sharp turn, beside the potions cupboard and following the bookshelf back to the fireplace.
He’d only made the circuit a half-dozen times when the door cracked open. Draco threw his fur lined gloves at the professor who stepped into the room. Who stepped in and neatly caught the gloves aimed squarely at his face.
“Whoever,” Draco spun with a satisfying swish of his robes “thought that hiring a dragon-keeping Weasley as Magical Creatures professor…” Pointing his finger was pretty satisfying too “was a good idea…”
But now Charlie had stepped across the room, steady in his dragonhide boots, and tucking Draco’s gloves into one of his pockets, he reached for Draco with large, rough hands.
“Stupid, reckless, pureblood throwback…” Draco was actually winding down and let Charlie pull him in against his solid chest.
“You’ve been to the infirmary, then?” Charlie asked. Draco nodded and finally sighed and pushed his face into Charlie’s neck, breathing in leather and sulfer and sweat. “He’ll be fine, Draco. Bit o’ sleep and the bone-mending potion, and he’ll be fine. I’d have flown into that dragon’s mouth before I let Scorpius get hurt.”
At that, Draco shoved one hand up under the leather vest and fisted his other hand in red hair. “Charlie,” and it was almost a moan.
“Shh,” Charlie soothed, one hand firmly stroking across Draco’s shoulders. “I know, love, I know. Stay in my rooms tonight, and then you can have breakfast with Scorpius in the infirmary tomorrow.”
Draco pulled back, and grey eyes narrowed at the burn on Charlie’s cheek. “Charlie,” he said again, and leaned in for a soft, wet kiss.
“I love you too” Charlie replied.
Neither Draco, nor anything else in this story belongs to me.
Rating: Mature for references
(I)
The first time Draco said “I love you” to Astoria was at their wedding rehearsal. He was drunk, and sitting in an upholstered chair in the narthex; a chair likely meant for frail faithful grannies on Sunday mornings, but just the right softness for grooms-to-be who’d been a little too vigorously bottoming in a club back room the night before. Draco’s eyes were drifting shut as he listened to the priest earnestly explain that the wedding party, including the groom, especially the groom, needed to be sober for the wedding the next day. The priest turned to Greg, looking more sturdy than the stone wall against which he leant, and tried his luck convincing him that best man duties involved delivering a sober groom to the church. Draco considered the priest’s ass. Nice and round, softly framed in his dark denims, and Draco didn’t bother raising his eyes when the priest turned around. Nice package in front too, and finally he looked up (nice chest under the severe black shirt, flushed face about the dog collar) and leered.
The priest spluttered. There was something about “duty, family, sacred covenant, and honest intentions” but Draco wasn’t really listening to anything until he heard Astoria’s heels clicking across the parquet floor.
“Draco” she said brightly, and Draco straightened in his chair and actually opened his eyes properly to see Astoria, with a slight man trailing behind with an armful of flowers. “This is the nice young man I found to help with the flowers.”
The nice young man looked an awful lot like someone Draco had seen on his knees in the back room the night before, especially as he was starting to flush and oh yes, what was Astoria up to? Flushing, and not looking at Draco or Blaise, who was not so discreetly drinking from his flask by the sanctuary doors. Starting to flush and looking at the priest, who’d gone white, and to whom Astoria was now saying “And I hope we’re not going to have any trouble tomorrow?”
“Astoria, I love you” blurted out Draco, rising to his feet smoothly (not that drunk, see?) and kissing her cheek.
“Try to be more discreet, my dear” she replied, taking his arm and leading him away. “By the time we need to arrange a christening, I might not have time to blackmail the priest.”
(II)
There was never been anything more precious than this. Soft, bald little pointy head, perfect tiny fingers and toes, and Draco ducked his head down to the sleepy bundle in his arms and would face down Dark Lords, would burn the Manor to the ground, would write the next Prophet tribute to the Potter-Weasleys, would do anything to protect his son. “Scorpius, Scorpius” he crooned, in a voice he’d never used before “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
(III)
When Narcissa was dying, Draco threw up every morning in the first floor bathroom at St. Mungo’s. He started carrying a toothbrush and a small tube of cinnamon flavoured toothpaste in his bag, along with a novel to read aloud to Narcissa as she drifted in and out of consciousness, floated on anti-pain potions. He brought in a brightly coloured cotton blanket from home, brought flowers from the gardens, brought sheet music from the conservatory and sang softly to her, held her once delicate, now swollen hand.
And still she floated away.
When it had been three days since she’d last called him by name, when her arms were turning dark with bruises, when the night nurse said that he might want to consider spending the night, because it might not be long now, he cried.
He laid his head against the metal sidebar of Narcissa’s bed and softly cried beside the sunken body of his once elegant mother. “I love you, Mama.” he whispered hoarsely, pushing limp hair from her face. “I love you.”
(IV)
Greg had his own guest room at the Manor. Pansy preferred the large blue suite at the end of the guest wing when she came for visits. Astoria’s friends were more numerous, more frequent guests, and stayed in the smaller, more modern rooms. They had elaborate dinners, and played complicated card games and Draco didn’t really care as long as they stayed out of his library and billiards room.
One night, coming up to his room, Draco ran into one of Astoria’s friends in the upstairs hall in the family wing. Richard was barefoot, hair mussed and wearing soft sleeping pants. Draco frowned, but Richard smiled and spoke softly and slipped right inside Draco’s defenses. “Looking for you.” Richard whispered into Draco’s ear, following that surprising statement with a wet tongue in Draco’s ear, which was unexpected enough to flutter Draco’s eyes shut, so he didn’t see Astoria sliding her bedroom door shut.
Richard slipped into Draco’s bed once or twice on every visit after that. He would push Draco with sure hands until Draco was sprawled across his sheets, eager and unsure. It went on for months, until one cool February morning, Draco came down for breakfast and found Astoria’s trunks and luggage in the main hall.
She was pulling on long warm gloves, and twitching the fingers into place while Richard gave instructions to the house elves about the luggage.
Draco stopped short, hand clenching on the banister. Astoria looked up at him on the stairs, and her mouth pulled down at one side. “We’re leaving.” And just like that, he knew, and his legs crumpled under him until he was sitting on the third to last step of the long sweeping staircase.
“But I love you” Draco said without thinking. Richard wouldn’t look at him, and reached for the floo powder on the mantel.
(V)
Draco had a favorite pacing pattern in the Headmistress’ office at Hogwarts. He’d established it sometime around Scorpius’ spectacular mid-air collision in 3rd year, and perfected it during the week Scorpius and Albus had gone missing inside the castle researching their history project on the ghosts of Hogwarts. From the fireplace, past the doorway, across the blue carpet runner and past the desk. A sharp turn, beside the potions cupboard and following the bookshelf back to the fireplace.
He’d only made the circuit a half-dozen times when the door cracked open. Draco threw his fur lined gloves at the professor who stepped into the room. Who stepped in and neatly caught the gloves aimed squarely at his face.
“Whoever,” Draco spun with a satisfying swish of his robes “thought that hiring a dragon-keeping Weasley as Magical Creatures professor…” Pointing his finger was pretty satisfying too “was a good idea…”
But now Charlie had stepped across the room, steady in his dragonhide boots, and tucking Draco’s gloves into one of his pockets, he reached for Draco with large, rough hands.
“Stupid, reckless, pureblood throwback…” Draco was actually winding down and let Charlie pull him in against his solid chest.
“You’ve been to the infirmary, then?” Charlie asked. Draco nodded and finally sighed and pushed his face into Charlie’s neck, breathing in leather and sulfer and sweat. “He’ll be fine, Draco. Bit o’ sleep and the bone-mending potion, and he’ll be fine. I’d have flown into that dragon’s mouth before I let Scorpius get hurt.”
At that, Draco shoved one hand up under the leather vest and fisted his other hand in red hair. “Charlie,” and it was almost a moan.
“Shh,” Charlie soothed, one hand firmly stroking across Draco’s shoulders. “I know, love, I know. Stay in my rooms tonight, and then you can have breakfast with Scorpius in the infirmary tomorrow.”
Draco pulled back, and grey eyes narrowed at the burn on Charlie’s cheek. “Charlie,” he said again, and leaned in for a soft, wet kiss.
“I love you too” Charlie replied.
