bTitle:/b 'ASP'

bAuthor:/b tigersilver

bPrompt:/b Prompt #57: Asp runs the most infamous masquerade nightclub, he is always seen but never interacts with guests until the night Harry Potter walks in. Asp takes advantage of it and fucks Harry. Harry ends up pregnant, he has no idea who the other father really is, and in honour of Asp, names his son Albus Severus Potter. Draco has to say something, no Malfoy can be named Albus. Special Request(s): Happy end. Squicks: non-con/rape, blood, scat. Maximum Rating: Nc-17 Anything else: How the masquerade is done is up to you, be it glamour, masks, or polyjuice or something else.

bRating:/b NC-17

bDisclaimer:/b Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

bWarning(s):/b Hmmm...well. A bit cracky and there's some fluff? Not heinous amounts, but still. Here be fluff.

bEpilogue compliant?/b Um, no. Not even a little.

bWord Count:/b 11,000

bSummary:/b Exactly as the prompt says, as it is on the packet.

bAuthor's Notes:/b This concept was a pleasure to write to, dear prompter. Further, I was incredibly fortunate, as I was able to collaborate with a positively fab artist all the way through and, oh! The inspiration was divine! Too, I'd have been lost without the help of two dear, darling, speedy Betas L and B to kick me back on track (thank you, lovelies) as needed, plus the chance to work with the wonderful Mods. Thank you all for a very lovely experience.

In the beginning, there were a few things nobody knew or suspected. To wit:

Harry Potter was quite bitterly lonely after his two best mates were married.

Draco Malfoy had been in need of a well-paying profession, which provided a high degree of anonymity, after the war was ended.

Harry had always been rather fond of the mysterious, particularly when it wasn't actively attempting to kill him.

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had both sustained monumental crushes on another boy when attending Hogwarts Sixth Year. In both separate cases, the situations had come to nothing.

Harry Potter was good at concealment spells.

Draco Malfoy was better.

Harry Potter was not only the most powerful Wizard alive; he was also indubitably the most unusual.

Draco Malfoy was clever, exceedingly so, and he liked a decent jest now and again, especially when only he was fully cognizant of the punch line.

In 200X, on a warm spring evening, a bored and lonely Harry Potter strolled into ASP, property of 'Asp', a distinctly unusual club owned by a distinctly unusual person.

The club was purportedly owned and run by one Draco Malfoy. Everyone knew that couldn't possibly be true…because Malfoys? Even they wouldn't dare flout convention to that heinous level. Unthinkable! Inconceivable! Absolutely not! Malfoys, despite their recent brush with the Great Late Unpleasantness, were above all that.

Still, the idea was a heady one, if daft. And Draco Malfoy, he of the Society Pages and generous bequests to war orphans, was a heady topic of gossip.

But everyone knew it couldn't possibly be true. Even if the owner of ASP was always about and bore a remarkable resemblance to the Malfoy scion. Even if he actually—daringly—went by the moniker 'Asp', which was a Slytherin House in-joke if ever one heard one.

The club itself was located on the corner of semi-seedy Peculiar and approximately perpendicular to absolutely rubbishing Tin Pan Alley; it was dim inside, perfumed with frangipani and scotch, covered with gilt-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors, pounding with a randy beat and—this was most important—populated by a select number of masquerading 'guests' strictly of the male persuasion. Harry slotted right in, as intended.

On this balmy evening, he was dressed appropriately enough in what amounted to a neatly tailored, glove-leather brown thong, a brazen breastplate, a pair of laced forearm braces, and a half bottle of glistening oil evenly distributed wherever leather and beaten brass were not. Not quite covering this mostly nude gladiatorial get-up was a dashing scarlet half-cloak pinned with a golden lion's head brooch at the throat, a glittering golden half-mask to match, and ankle high boots with a stacked heel. This last, a conscious sartorial choice opposed to the de riguer sandals a Roman was normally shod in (he'd rejected them as not up to the rubbish-ridden state of Tin Pan). Quite the picture, all in all, of a handsome youth seeking a pleasant level of debauchery…but nothing unusual, really. There were plenty of other Romans—and some Greeks, in laurels and little else—taking to the dance floor this particular evening; there was even another centurion dancing mostly naked in a suspended cage.

And a scattering of clowns, mimes, Arabian genii, Russians in their furs, and of course Merlin—at least three of him—and also several 'Harry Potters'. More than several; one couldn't go three steps without tripping over the Scarred One.

No one took any special note of this Roman 'stranger in a strange land' nor remarked on his resemblance to the well-represented young Hero, as Harry had thoughtfully spelt his hair blond and curly and his eyes very blue, discarding his specs for a vision-enhancing incantation. Excepting one gentleman, naturally: the owner.

Nothing, but nothing, got by the owner, not in Club ASP.

'Asp', as Draco Malfoy had fancied for an eponymous pseudonym when he first came up with the idea of a rather 'special' nightclub catering to the likes of a certain 'special' sector of the Wizarding community, was always present and on the alert. Asp tended to sit behind the plated glass two-way mirrors and watch whenever he was not busy circulating. Such intent observation, safe and hidden, suited him, and occasionally the club earned a spot of cash on an interesting piece of gossip or scandal, recorded on film for later enjoyment. Mostly, though, it was trivia he never bothered to use further for gain.

What interested Asp most were the types who sought entry to his exclusive club. He fancied himself a bit of a student of human nature, Asp did. Night after night observation had done little to shake his habitual scepticism, however. Wizards, apparently, were just the same sort as Muggles: half the bloody Wizengamot was present on the dance floor, 'getting down and dirty', and a certain hefty percentage of the higher-ups in the Ministry were making full use of the private curtained booths that lined it.

Boring, Asp concluded, and resigned himself to another long evening. Nothing new here. Damn it.

Queue Harry, excusing his way politely up to the bar in search of a drink and then staring about discreetly while waiting for service, one blond brow arched up quite a bit higher than the other. And then carefully consuming the obligatory cherry stuck facetiously on the green plastic swordstick and a moment later quietly spitting out onto his palm not just the usual deftly knotted stem, but a full-fledge Celtic knot made of same.


Tiny, perfect, cherry-stem gem was barely noticeable. The gladiator regarded his creation with a faintly sardonic smile before he tucked it away swiftly into his dampened serviette and cast both items onto the bar's surface, just another stray scrap of detritus.

Asp, one eye on the till and one eye on the crowd round his bar that was filling it, sat up and took notice, as he always took notice of the slightest variance from the usual in his place of business. Dialling in the mirrors to have a closer look, he examined the product of the boring gladiator's sleight-of-tongue, though it was certainly no more than minor amusement—a clever party trick, what?

But it was such a pretty little piece of knotwork, gleaming with spit from the snowy folds of the used serviette, and suitable as coming from the subtly appealing gilt-topped gleam of this charming young soldier of fortune. Delicate; yes, subtle, fit…intriguing—entrancing, all of it: the expert knot, the musing half-smile, the well-toned skin, gleaming with oil, the golden-tanned forearms and the trim muscled calves that flexed so very…seductively…as the gladiator turned his back to the bar to scan the masked mob milling. All this, Asp drank in. Avidly.

And the boots. Definitely the boots. He noticed them.

But this especial gladiator, he was a very fresh face in the club, upon Asp's further consideration—and his body was very fit. And somehow, p'haps, oddly familiar. It was a body the owner seemed to recall from the mists of memory, though very vaguely. Perhaps once it had been a bit thinner, that physique, a bit scrawnier...Asp wasn't certain. On balance, though, Asp was intrigued, vastly, and that was not a feeling he felt often.

When intrigued, Asp tended to investigate personally.

Additional items not common knowledge nor widely known, but possibly pertinent:

Harry Potter can, indeed, dance. He took pains to learn, later, after the war. Hermione taught him.

Draco Malfoy donates a large percentage of his yearly earnings to various lesser-known charities. One of them supports displaced house elves.

Ginny Weasley has been seeing Dean Thomas for years. Years. But they will never be requited, nor engaged, nor married, because Dean already is, and happily. To Seamus. Everyone is the best of mates.

Harry's quite all right with that, ta.

The Malfoys have never once in recent centuries named a child of theirs 'Albus'. The name is an anathema to them, as there was once upon a time an Albus Malfoy who nearly gambled away the entire holding, even the Manor, solely upon the arrangement of a doe's entrails spilled upon the dirt of a dusty footpath for a scrying dare. Fortunately and mercifully, Albus Malfoy was murdered by his eldest son within short order and his given name was reviled ever after as an omen of ill fortune.

Several of the potions mis-brewed, and thence duly ordered immediately thereafter to be consumed by the young brewer in the early, tumultuous years of Harry Potter's Potions lessons with one Professor Severus Snape, have gone on to produce interesting and unusually long-lasting side effects, unforeseen by that late, great mind.

Lastly, Malfoys actually prefer large boisterous families. It has been only a series of ill-judged alliances with equally ancient and inbred elder lines that have led to the dearth of such in the last several decades. Periodically, a Malfoy will indulge in the urge to bed a plebe, though, or even—Merlin forbid! —will marry one, and once again multitudinous Malfoys will result.

On a not-as-balmy winter eve in the year 200X, one Albus Severus Potter entered the world, complaining loudly and with a definite flounce to his wee waving appendages. His birth father instantly noted that his second son offered clear indications of looking much like him, Harry Potter. This pleased Harry greatly, as he'd always abhorred gossip of any kind, and the papers would have a field day if the second Potter child bore a distinct resemblance to his other biological father, 'Asp'.

Not that Harry knew precisely what Asp looked like in real life, but that was immaterial. Albus was his, all his, and Harry planned for it to stay that way. Ginny, darling dear that she was, only switched to knitting green-and-silver booties in place of the red-and-gold ones she'd begun earlier and cooed sweetly over the latest addition. Albus Severus, for all his fine young temper and robust little lungs, was a charmer.

Given as it was a magical birth, with the attendant fast recovery time, Harry and little Albus Severus were turned out of their room at St. Mungo's promptly, as soon as both were pronounced fit.

On a very definitely not-balmy later winter evening that same year, Draco Malfoy happened to be studying his family tree intently. He was in his study, awaiting news of the birth of his own son, who was to be named appropriately enough after a constellation. Astoria Greengrass Malfoy, in the tradition of many of the more notable Malfoy brides, had promised him a son, and one only, before she skived off to resume her peripatetic but amazingly fun life in France with her penniless, garret-dwelling, artist lover.

"Suits me," Draco had observed, over a pre-nup tea with Astoria. "Provided he's not, well…too much like your sainted mother. Merlin forefend."

"Not to worry, Draco, darling," Astoria had laughed lightly, pouring a handsome dollop of absinthe in her Earl Grey. "M'father's genes run strong in me and he's a quite powerful Wizard, Dad. Mum's a bit of a beast, really, but there you are. Or she is, decorative but dim. Arranged alliance; what can you do? Do disregard her—I do."

"Yes. She is, indeed, there," Draco agreed politely. "Lamentably. Well, Tory, as long as our future child is not there, where she is, all will be copacetic and jammy. We'll proceed as planned, then. I'll deposit the initial draught come Monday, dear."

"Thank you, darling. You'll not regret it, I promise."

"Very well, my love." Draco sipped his tea, ruing the necessity for arranged marriages: so archaic, so messily medieval, all of it. But he'd always wanted children, so. "Ensure I do not, then. Dear."


Draco wasn't truly planning on regretting anything, as long as Astoria faithfully buggered off to France after as promised, leaving him with a fully functional heir, his club, the majority of his funds, and his freedom to shag as he liked. In other words, all the items that constituted the current Malfoy definition of happiness.

Draco was relieved to learn this winter's night—via the startling sudden appearance of a great golden magical plume, popping into being in a puff of silver fairy dust and frantically scribbling in golden thread below the bough that bore his parent's names—of the timely and healthy arrival of young Scorpius. Scorpius: an excellent name for a Malfoy child, and the boy was clearly powerful already. His name glowed in golden script like a little sun, lighting up his inch of tapestry and spilling over. Draco was not nearly so pleased to note, upon further wielding of his trusty magnifying glass, a thinly leafed but unmistakable secondary limb extending from the other side of his own name, also bearing fruit. Brilliant fruit, also glowing.


'Harry Potter', this limb read, 'plus Draco Malfoy'. Attached to the single informational line, via any number of highly unnecessary but elegantly ornate thread scrolls and decorative French rosettes, was the true kicker, a name which sent the proud new father of not one but two male infants into utter, gasping, scarlet-cheeked conniptions: 'Albus'. 'Albus Severus Potter' it read.


"The FUCK?"

Draco passed over the fact that the dreaded name 'Albus' was fancifully contained within a stylized silver pomegranate, even though that was hands-down his favourite fruit and should have pleased him, on balance. This, because there was also the asterisked note just below that horrible, horrible, terribly ill-omened name, in much smaller silver-gilt thread, which read: 'By-blow, as yet unacknowledged. Status pending.'


Master Draco's enraged shriek could be heard for literally miles of unending mansion corridors—or so the house elves later claimed while dramatically nursing shattered eardrums wrapped up in green-and-silver kerchiefs. All the way down to the dungeons, now hosting nothing but dusty wine bottles, and all the way up to the attics, the recent resting place of many a recalcitrant ancestor done up in magical oils, the wounded Banshee howl of the affronted Malfoy heir did ring. Fortunately, it did not wake his newly arrived son-and-heir, Scorpius.

Draco, however, was not himself for nothing. Logic and both sub- and conscious memory (aided by a handily inherited Pensieve) precluded him having had any ill-remembered relations outside his marriage and his club. Indisputably, though, he'd sired a boy child named (of all things!) Albus. Very recently. Very. Ergo, it must've been a club-goer who was the guilty 'other' and the tapestry stated quite clearly this person was the one, the only, Harry Potter. Potter: a male. A cock-bearing male, as Draco could attest. Sans womb. Nil bosom. Not necessarily a likely suspect for a person normally expected to give birth, what with the lack of standardized equipment for same. Had been a fairly safe bet for a corking shag, all in all, till recent revelations.

Was a corking shocker, really, the revelation Draco was a father twice-over. Hmm. Asp had always rather had an eye for Potter. Hmm. And now the family genealogy expert claimed he'd fathered his child. Potter's. Hmmm. Which the daft prat had promptly dubbed 'Albus', and possibly only in a bid to offend Draco to the point of barking, howling madness. For Potter had always had it in for Malfoy and likely that hadn't changed, even if Malfoy had had a very different 'it' in Potter. Potter's arse, that is. Asp's willy.

The enraged high-brow Malfoy shriek was followed by much humming, some intensive forays into the inherited brandy stores, and a half-arsed conclusion, of sorts, hours later: more information was required. Proof, and not necessarily the dubious sort provided by a moth-eaten old wall hanging with a penchant for flashy gold-toned magical calligraphy.

Thus, Asp instantly repaired post-haste to his private office, located the top floor of Club ASP, and reviewed his precious film recordings, second by second, moment by moment, seeking proof. Mistakes had been known to happen. Wild magic was, as the tin promised, wild. Potter was demonstrably not brood mare material, certainly not for Malfoys. And…yet. And still….

Albus was a purely horrible name for any son of his. Execrable!

What had Potter been thinking?

Much later that evening, so much later it was really very early morning, Asp still brooded, chin planted wearily upon his fist. Turned the matter over in his Machiavellian mind—bloodshot eyes switching from photo stills of a certain short blond gladiator to a revolving reference image of his own particular section of the family tapestry, only to dart over to a recent newsprint image of Potter, accompanied by a black-haired, green-eyed baby boy clad in quite expensive swaddling, being hastily turned out of St. Mungo's doors by some ninny of a Healer. To Asp's beleaguered eye, Potter seemed quite chuffed over his latest family acquisition even if he also seemed exhausted. And the baby looked exactly nothing like Asp—or Draco Malfoy.

But yet. And still…Albus!

Hmm. Clearly there was strong magic afoot. Strong magic. It behoved the personality known as 'Asp' to approach this situation cautiously. Certainly he should not go rushing off to confront that git Potter face to face, like the proverbial erumphant in a shop full of firecrackers.

No. He should pop by the Ministry's Registry first and obtain the proper form needed to effect a change of name for one's child. Then he could go and browbeat Potter. The berk.

"Harry," moaned his brother-in-law that same morning, at about that same time, "you seriously didn't."

"Clearly," Harry rejoined, "I seriously did."

Albus Severus gurgled sweetly, kicking his tiny heels in their tiny booties.

"Well…" Ron Weasley tipped his kitchen chair back on two legs, endangering himself, the contents of the table, the nearby sideboard, and any pretensions he may've had to polite behaviour, and sighed. Heavily. "You always were a git when it came to him. Don't tell me—you went to his club."


"And he knocked you up."


"And this is all right, all bloody perfectly canasta, and m'sister's not said shite to a jarvey."

"Nope." Harry grinned, twitching his wand to set the magically floating mobile to spinning. Little brooms and bludgers tinkled, whirling, bouncing smartly to the tune of the Hogwarts School Song. An itty-bitty golden Snitch darted amongst their weaving circles, ducking smartly. Albus Severus Potter gurgled, kicking his heels and making abortive attempts to Seek. Harry grinned proudly at him, smoothing an errant baby curl back from his tiny unmarked forehead. "Gin's been a peach over it, really. And he was a decent lay, Malfoy. Knew it was him, of course."

"You did not!" Ron protested. "Don't forget I know you, Harry Potter. You only went in there because you'd heard that Asp fellow looked like him. You're too much of a coward otherwise."

"Not true!" Harry sat up perfectly straight, pointing the tip of his wand at Ron's disbelieving face. "I had a very good suspicion of it, based on available evidence. It's exactly the sort of thing the bastarding arse would do, Ron. He's a Slytherin, remember?"

"He was disguised, Harry. That's the whole point of that sodding club—secrecy. How did you even know?"

"Hmm…" Harry sat back, smiling fondly at nothing much in particular, his eyes distant and oddly gentle. Rubbed a slow hand down his chest and trailed his fingertips over his crotch, caressing the lamentably lax bulge that lay there quiescent. "Hmmm…must've been the way he sneered at me. Or maybe—"

Ron gawped. "Maybe?"

"It was the way he shouted 'Potter!' when he came in me. Triumphant-like. Bracingly savage, even." Harry sighed again, and even more happily. "God's fuck, Ron, but that was brilliant." The bulge gave a twitch. Ron's blue eyes widened, dramatically. Baby Albus, for his part, blew a stray bubble and kept up his on-going yammer of gurgle. He was an awfully pleasant infant and Ginny Weasley Potter just absolutely adored him. As did his own big half-brother, James. "Huh. Like he'd got one over on me. That was kind of a dead giveaway, right there. The sneer, the strut—you know." Harry shrugged happily."And fuck, mate—the man can shag. Definitely sex on stick. Had to be our little Prince, don't you know?"

"Erp," Ron said. His best mate smirked, resettling his arse on his donut pillow.

"Oh, my fucking gods," Ron moaned, dropping his flaming head dramatically forward, just in time to catch its downward descent in a set of two large freckled palms. "You are so whipped, Harry. Really, I feel for you. Poor mad bastard. And him too, if it is him. Poor madder arse. Little does he know what he's got into. Fucking woe."

"Thanks," Harry chirped, cheerily, "but I think I'm alright. He'll never know what really happened—bit unbelievable, isn't it?—and I've got another kid out of the deal. Not suffering too much here. Not that carrying Al around all that time was a bloody picnic—"

"It's a bleeding pain in the arse to always and forever be spelling your partner's robes flat and curse-impervious, Harry," Ron growled between his fingers, peeking balefully. "I hope you know that, wanker. Bit much to ask, I'd say. You owe me."

"Yes, Ron," Harry replied dutifully. "Ta, I owe you. Now, d'you want to be a godparent to my little Asp or not? Because I can always ask Charlie."

"The hell you will!"

Information that is widely known and accepted:

Harry Potter, though an incredibly powerful Wizard, often uses spells in ways they are not originally intended. Expelliarmus, for instance.

Draco Malfoy would adore to have a second child, preferably a little girl, according to the latest interview with the Prophet's Society Pages reporter, one Galicia Gabrielle Gormblast. He and his wife of several years, socialite Astoria Greengrass-Malfoy, are known to be amicably estranged, however. Prospects are fairly low.

Ron Weasley and his wife, Hermione Granger-Weasley, are godparents to both the Potter children.

The Weasley family, as a whole, has a great love of any and all related children, no matter how exactly related. They dote.

Harry insists on naming all his children after dead famous people, deceased Heroes of the Order generally. But also others…certain 'others'. This, to the consternation of his family members and friends. And his poor long-suffering wife, Ginny. And his brother-in-law, Ronald.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan-Thomas are happily married and have been for some years. They are the primo facie cause for Magistrate Hermione Granger-Weasley's pushing through to law the 200x Civil Liberties Acts for Gay Wizards Bill, a momentously powerful piece of politically charged parchment.

The Ministry's Auror Department does not offer paid paternity leave.

Five days out of hospital, Harry Potter sat disconsolately in his office, carry-cot at his side, floating mobile magically tinkling and spinning.

Paperwork. Filing. Making tea. It was all he was good for, currently—a sad blow to an Auror who prided himself on ferocious efficiency and on always 'getting his man'. Which was the root problem: he'd had his man and his man had paid him back by getting him up the duff, decidedly.

"Pooh," Harry sighs for the fourteenth time, ever mindful of his infant son's virgin ears perked at his elbow. Ginny, Harry' beloved helpmeet, had taken Jamie along with her, of course, but Harry had been feeling particularly grabby over this second Potter child. Didn't like his little Albus shifted an inch out of his sight, not for one sodding moment. Was quite fixated, a notion his Healer had informed him might be due to a sort of magical bout of post-natal depression. Not that his Healer had much clue as to how to diagnose and treat the symptoms of a male pregnancy and delivery, it being a very recent specialty and limited to just one patient.

'The' Patient.

Harry had scoffed, loudly, and had carted his little Asp to work with him anyway, far too soon after his ground-breaking C-section, likely but that was how the magical fortune cookie crumbled. It sucked rotten eggs and spoilt herring both, his situation; the Department's response to Harry's heroic stubbornness in keeping his baby by his side was to land him with all the paperwork for all the damned Aurors, but Harry supposed he ought to be at least slightly grateful not be booted entirely. The Ministry did not offer paternity leave—if only because there'd never once before been a need for it.

Hermione was naturally 'working on it, Harry,' but tradition ran deep in the Wizarding community. Witches were the ones who generally got on with the unpleasant but necessary business of birthing the next generation. Now and again, yes, there'd be a Creature—Veela, Selkie, Mermaid, Giantess, you name it—who'd do the same and that was all very well. But generally it was the females of the H. sapiens magicus species, going about their accustomed thing without much fuss. Certainly not Wizards. Absolutely not powerfully heroic Auror-type Wizards, with Scars and Iconic Eyes and Memorable Hair.

The Ministry, having possessed no clue and no precedent, had been forced to scramble. No, they did not wish Harry Potter to give notice. Yes, Asp could go to work with Harry, and Harry therefore could make the tea and file.

"Bother," Harry sighed again, not so patiently, for the twenty-ninth time in as many moments. He chafed, he did, at being chained to a desk. "Bugger."

He sharpened three pencils and folded a paper airplane with deft motions of his wand.

"Bother, bugger, fuck."

What he wouldn't do for little excitement. But it was far too soon to return to the Club even if his bits-and-pieces were fully healed and open for business as usual. No, he'd yet to feel comfy leaving little Asp with anyone, even his own dear wife.


Little Asp burbled, adorably, which only served to reinforce Harry's conviction.

"Oops! I'm sorry, little man," his father instantly apologized to the darling infant. "My bad!" he cooed. "Poor wittle Ally-Wally-Oopsie. Papa didn't mean to say that naughty word, not around you, sweets. He's so sawwy, baby. Forgive him?"

Albus yawned widely at his doting Papa's fretful face, revealing a set of charming gums. Harry grinned foolishly down at his infant son, diverted and smitten, as he was so easily these days, awash in paternal chemistry. Another symptom, no doubt, of this post-partum nonsense the Healer spoke of. Or possibly it was due to the lingering effects of ingesting too many Snape-taught Potions as a teen—who knew? No matter how it had come about, Harry was a daddy now, twice over, and understandably a bit soggy-minded.

And then Harry-the-Brilliant-Auror belted up and got on grimly with yet more bleeding inconsequential paperwork. Having already prepared the morning tea.

Ten minutes passed, though it felt more like ten centuries.

Twenty minutes, after that, at a glacial gait.

Three annotated files, five more paper aeroplanes and seventeen sharpened pencils later:

"Pooh sticks!" Harry exclaimed in a temper, slinging away his latest file to languish in a dusty corner. "Fuck, but I'm bored! Bored! Out of my mind-bored, gone 'round the twist bored, completely ment—!"


The door of his office burst open, with a slam. With such kinetic force it bounced back immediately, locking shut behind the rabid-eyed intruder and instantly triggering all of Harry's privacy wards.


"Eh, what?" Harry queried, intelligently if feebly, staring goggle-eyed at his abrupt guest. He staggered to his feet, clutching his wand and spelling a quick protective shield about little Asp's cot. "What're you doing here, Malfoy? Huh? What the buggering fuck?"

"What! What am I? That's exactly the problem, Potter!" Draco Malfoy strutted forward, icy eyes ablaze with hugely apparent ire, long elegant hands fisted grimly at his lean hips. "The fuck!"

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't spank you, Potter!" Draco demanded, pacing the short space between desk and door in a fine fit of fury. "Take down your pants, turn you over my knee and spank you! One. Good. Reason."

"Ah," Harry thoughtfully pointed out the infant. "Erm, well, our son here? Not before the baby, dear; it's not done. And, ah, also...the Ministry probably wouldn't approve of it? sexual hijinks at the office? I seem to recall a memo, recently, to that effect. Dawson strikes again."

He smiled. Malfoy didn't.

"The Ministry?" Malfoy spat, flailing two long arms. "Like I give a flying fuck about the bloody fucking, Merlin-forsaken Ministry, Potter? Are you mental?"

"Um, no," Harry blinked slowly, tapping a wondering forefinger to his faintly cleft chin. "Not that I know of, Malfoy. Depressed? Possibly. Also, and just so as you're aware, I'm not actually all that into spanking, per se, though I could possibly—" All essays at something approaching seriousness vanished, he grinned saucily up at his visitor, visibly appreciating all that lean, long six feet stretch of stormy pale weather, "—possibly make an exception for you, Asp. Darling."

"That's another item, Potter. How did you even know?" Malfoy came up close, planting both hands on Harry's cluttered desk and bending over it so far their foreheads nearly touched. "I was disguised!"

"No you weren't," Harry retorted cheerily. "I knew it was you."

"You didn't!"

"I did." Harry was implacable in the face of a pink-cheeked, sneering Malfoy. "I'm an Auror, twat. If not right off the bat, then soon after I knew. No one struts the way you do, Draco. No one."


"And no one sneers the same way either," Harry went on reasonably, well pleased with his own perspicacity. "Yours are an art form, really. Unmistakeable. Besides, you hardly bothered with a disguise, did you? Green-and-silver sequins and a half mask hardly make up a decent disguise. Give it a rest."

"Hah! It's worked perfectly well for years, Potter," Malfoy sneered that famous sneer. "None of the rest of that pack of fools has ever twigged it was really me, all this time, running the Club."

"Hmm. Well… if you say so." Harry humped a careless shoulder, unconvinced. "You fooled them, fine. Their loss, then. But I happen to have an additional advantage, Draco, one I bet you don't know of."

"Oh, yes?" Draco sniffed, one brow arching. "You don't say. Potter."

"Yes, I do say," Harry smirked. "I've a tapestry, you see, in my study. Family tapestry; has a tree thingy on it. Says it right there, plain as day: 'Potter plus Malfoy equals baby boy Albus Severus'. Illegitimate, of course, but I think I could see my way to allowing you partial custody." He cocked one of his eyebrows, a disturbingly canny one, and gave his handsome visitor the once-over. "If properly persuaded, that is. You've an awful lot of Galleons to your name, darling daddy dearest. Asp will likely be wanting the latest in broom technology when he's old enough, I should think. And there's child support to consider, too. Infants are expensive—you should know, Asp."


Asp did not, thankfully, launch himself across Potter's desk and wring his scrawny neck at that moment of speechless fury, as he so very much wished to do. He did not shout obscenities at Potter for being a teasing twat, a sly git, and a real wanker, as he very much desired. He did, however, cast his own brand of careful protective shield bubble about Baby Albus and motion the carry-cot containing him to a safer place, well away from Harry's desk, flicking his wand gently as he gritted his teeth and manfully bit back invective. Across the room sailed cot containing baby, in fact, and straight into a nice patch of dappled sun from the faux window.

Albus Severus gurgled and gummed a tiny fist, well pleased with the sudden change of perspective. He agreed with Papa; files were very boring. And he wasn't yet allowed tea.

"Draco?" Harry asked carefully, watching them both obsessively as Draco settled their son to his satisfaction, twitching the fold of the duvet here, and adjusting the level of shade there. "What're you doing, exactly? Here? In my office?"

"I am," Malfoy advised Harry calmly, having dusted his hands and tucked his wand neatly away, "planning to haul your pretty little arse before the Wizengamot."

"Pardon?" Harry half-rose from his swivel chair, startled to his feet. "Wait—why?" He flapped his hands helplessly. "It's no crime to have a baby, Draco! Where do you think you get off?"

"No," Draco agreed, baring his teeth in a brilliantly cold flash. "Not a crime, Harry. More a blessing and one I certainly didn't expect, thank you for that." He pressed up against the edge of the desk again, the distance between the two Wizards ever less as he thrust his sharp chin forward pugnaciously. "But it is a crime to name our baby 'Albus'. I won't have it."

"Huh?" Bewilderment replaced incipient anger on Harry's features. He tilted his head nearly sideways, lips parted, as if hoping the words might make sense if they approached at an oblique angle. "Uh…what? What's this you're saying to me, Draco?"

"At least in my family, Potter," Draco spat out. "I don't know about yours—plebe."

Flummoxed, Harry slapped a palm to his famously scarred brow, again blinking. Furiously fast.

"Stop gaping at me, Potter," Draco requested sedately after a longish pause during which Harry's jaw worked but no sentient noise issued forth. "The name is horrible. Abominable, awful, horrible, and though I've no objection at all to our son's middle name, I will not tolerate the use of—urgh!—' Albus'."


"Which brings us the Wizengamot, Harry, since I know you of old and I'm aware just how very mulish you can be. And slippery. And, um, ah..."


Draco smiled slightly, his eyes glazing a bit, as he recalled the man standing opposite him being slippery in other ways, far more literal.

"Hey!" Harry's jaw dropped. "That's not—I'm not—you're the one who wouldn't say it was you, Asp! Draco. How dare you come along now and accuse me of I don't even know what non—"

"That aside, Harry, and yes of course I knew it was you, Boy Wonder. Do you think we'd have fucked that often otherwise? Still, my point here is you will rename our boy to something appropriate or I shall sue you. For defamation of character. For gross negligence and possibly also general malice towards Malfoys. No Malfoy shall ever be named Albus. It goes completely against the grain."

"But-but-no!" Harry set his teeth. "You can't just waltz I here and tell me what to name our son, Draco. I can name him anything I please. I'm the one who car—"

"Yes, alright, alright! I know exactly what you did, Harry!" Draco flapped his hands again and swept round the desk. "Weird as it is, freaky as you are." Planted them upon Harry's shoulders and gave him a little frustrated shake. "I know you're the Wizarding world's resident nutter, I know you're Merlin's gift to the daft, and I know as well there is absolutely no one else like you, Harry, not in the whole wide world, and that only you could've managed to conceive and bear my child without me even suspecting till it was all over, you completely ridiculous twat. This I know, trust me! It's irritating, it's amazing; I thank you so much, Harry, you don't even know. He's beautiful, just perfect. But—"

"But." Harry parted his lips, staring upward bewildered. "But, what's the issue? It's all right, isn't it? It's not as though Asp is harming you in any way, Draco; how could he? He's only a little baby. And I've not come to you for anything; wasn't going to, either. If it weren't for that damned tapestry, I might not have even been certain—"

"Wait, WHAT?" Draco went first brilliant scarlet from the neck up and then utter dead white. He snapped his canines sharply in Harry's face, nearly upon his nose. Drew a sharp, short breath and let loose with a shout, "You slept with someone else, Potter? You allowed some other Wizard to make free of your body? The body I shagged, the body I can't get enough of? How could you? How dare you, you slag? What about me? Did you even think of me, how I'd feel? What we—what we had, Potter?"

"No—wait, Dra—"

"No, don't lie to me. Don't bother, Potter." His lips tightened to a narrow nasty line, his features settled into a mask of bitter resentment as Harry gaped. "Just—just fuck off."

"It's not like—"

"Of course not, why would you even?" Draco answered his own question airily, grimly, blond brows lowered like white-gold lighting, hands tightening cruelly upon the smaller man's collar bone. "You bloody well upped stakes and vanished on me for seven bloody months, didn't you? Didn't arse yourself to even hint there might've been consequences—" his glance darted over to the infant boy, dozing sweetly—"didn't trouble yourself one whit over me or what I may've wanted! Selfish! And then to spite me; it must've been to spite me, wasn't it? You go and name him bloody 'Albus', Harry. 'Albus'! The one name we Malfoys cannot stand. How could you, Harry? That's just cruel!"

"Whoa! Whoa, wait, Draco! Calm yourself!" Harry clapped a fast palm over Draco's lips, shushing him. "Hush! Shhh!" He brought his face up close to Draco's, going up on tiptoe to do it. "You'll wake him, dumb arse!" he whispered roughly, hackles raised. "Keep it down. And no, of course I didn't shag anyone else other than you, you prickly berk. I went to your silly dress-up club looking for you and you only. Why else?"

"…You did?" Draco went still, gently plucking at Harry's wrist and moving his stifling fingers away, clasping them instead. "You're certain of that, Harry? You were looking for me?"

As if in a trance, he slipped his other hand off Harry's shoulder and settled it at waist-level, an area of Potter nicely trim again after delivery and quite touchable, gently guiding the slighter Wizard ever nearer. This continued, by gradual degrees, till they were pressed together as much as they could be while still being fully clothed. Draco's neck bent at just the right angle so he could meet Harry's stare directly, completely without consulting his brain. He peered, inquisitively, a faint air of disbelief hovering 'round his slightly furrowed forehead. To say he was startled by this new information was an understatement; it was more that he was bowled over.

"Of course I was!" Harry protested, but Draco didn't seem to comprehend. "Merlin, but you're thick sometimes, aren't you?"

"You were looking for me, specifically?" Draco asked again, frowning full-out, jaw working furiously. "I thought you—I. No. You couldn't have been, Harry. Don't fib. It doesn't become you."

He made as if to pull back, to detach himself from the amorous Auror.

"Yes!" Harry hissed, wrapping both hands round his lover's long neck and effectively stymieing any thoughts of escape to saner pastures. His fingers twitched but he didn't tighten them—too, too much. Not enough to interfere with Draco's rapid breathing, at least. And he smiled, ferociously. "Yes, I could, for gods' sake! And I did do! Why does everyone always assume I hadn't a clue what I was doing, shagging you—shagging Asp? I'm an Auror, you know? Trained to observe, taught how to look for evidence, yeah? How to assimilate it, too! The first thing I observed, Draco, was that the big thing about Club-bloody-ASP was you. Draco Malfoy. No one believed you could own it, or be running it, traipsing about right under the noses of absolutely everyone who might disapprove, flouting convention left and right. But I could. I could, because I know you, Draco. I know how you think, how sly and funny and clever you are. I know you very well; don't say I don't."

"You…do." Draco's voice was flat. "Hmm." He quirked an eyebrow quizzically, jerked a sceptical lip, and stilled, awaiting events. "Really. Then, pray tell, what else do you... know...about me, dear Auror Potter? Do go on. I'm all ears."

"Mmm." Harry licked his lips swiftly. Blinked up at his visitor, green eyes daring. "Hmm. This."


Draco expected many things. Perhaps a list of his faults, perhaps a litany of his deeds and misdeeds, past and present. Perhaps even a minor tantrum on how Potter had discovered he, Draco, was sufficient for a few fast shags in a club lav but not at all acceptable for a fellow parent, excepting as maybe a possible source of extra funds later, when the innocuous infant in the room with them would require tutors and broomsticks, toys and tuition. And he'd a store built up of singularly cutting words to counter with, to whip out and apply brutally as needed to vanquish Potter's pretensions. Not to mention an official Ministry Records form shrunken and folded in his robe's pocket, all set to alter permanently the first name of his second son to something far more appropriately Malfoy. 'Orion', mayhap, or perhaps even 'Sirius'. 'Cygnet', for gods' sake! Anything, anything save Albus. What Draco Malfoy didn't have was a proper defence against a suddenly excessively cuddly Harry Potter.

This new sort of Potter lipped a kiss across Draco's pursed mouth, smiling. Feathered his fingers about the column of Draco's taut throat and allowed his prick to express his future intentions in no uncertain terms. By means of pressing it insistently against Draco's quivering thigh, actually.

"Oh," Draco gasped softly, automatically shifting to accommodate. "You!"

"Yes. Me."

A snugly, fit Harry, with lambent green fire in the depths of his eyes, oh gods! Draco boggled, as this new Harry pursed his inviting lips as well, went up on his tippy toes and wrapped his arms right 'round Draco's neck and shoulders, urging his shocked features within reach. And then proceeded to kiss him on the corner of his mouth, just lightly, smiling like the blazing sun all the while.

"Asp, darling."

"I," Draco breathed, undone by the raspy murmur of his pseudonym and ready to blurt out any number of revealing things, beginning with how he'd sorely missed Harry, all these months. Had dreamt of him, had even thought to go after him and confront him…till harsh reality intruded itself at last and he'd regretfully concluded it must've been nothing more than a fling. For Harry—not for him. He didn't personally do flings; he was a Malfoy. " No! What—what're you doing, Harry?"

Another brilliant smile lit up Draco's vision. "Asp, darling, must we argue? You see, I happen to know," Harry whispered ever so softly, their lips still just touching, the buggering tease, "that you fancy me. Fact."

"Exc—" Draco gulped. "Par—?"

"Shhh. You really will wake him if you shout again, Draco. Asp, rather. And I know—"

"I—no…" Draco interjected, swallowing hard, recalling the proverbial erumphant in the room—the third occupant. The baby—their baby, his and Harry's, that was. Oh, yes, rather. "No, of course not," he croaked feebly, shaking his head in the negative. "Don't want to do that, Harry. Would be bad, waking the baby."

"Yes," Harry breathed, "very bad. Mustn't, Malfoy."

"Oh, god." Draco pulled himself together before a clingy sweet-eyed Potter completely unmanned him. "Right, yes," he muttered, unable to not notice that his co-father was clearly going nowhere very far, was not even attempting to pull away. "Silencing charms not allowed for infants, no." Was, in fact, insinuating himself against Draco's person like a particularly sticky form of magical fly paper and rocking to-and-fro, on his boot heels, in a particularly mind-altering manner, rubbing up. Um...frotting? "Bad idea, not recommended," the paternal part of Draco's mind chimed in, and came rushing pell-mell from his mouth, shoving out a stream of words. He, too, had learnt a great deal about infants in recent weeks. "Never use them; Healer said. Babies are noisy, Harry. Just have to live with it, really—right. Er. Um, did you just say 'fancy'? Just now?"


"—ngh—" Draco swallowed, so hard his tongue tangled. He was a bit more than bollixed and it was increasingly difficult to recall why, exactly, he'd been so upset with Potter. Well, perhaps his bewilderment was due to Potter himself, who was actively thrusting his hips against Draco's all this time, rocking and rolling them to-and-fro, and clearly going places with the motion. Ah. If that could indeed be called 'going anywhere'. And neither was Draco. Going...anywhere. Possibly ever again, if this was Harry's response to a fly-by visit. Dear Merlin, but he'd make certain to pop by the Ministry's Auror offices more often, yes.

Several electrifying moments passed, until Draco recalled his armful had been saying something of crucial importance, and to him. Until he'd gone and derailed this confusing talk of fancying via a cascade of chatter over appropriate charm use for the very young.

"No, sorry about that; didn't mean to interrupt you. Just...go on," he begged urgently when the silent-excepting-the heavy breathing pause grew much too long between them and it seemed Potter had gone mysteriously mum, despite his ramped-up snuggling and the little almost-moans he emitted now and again. Draco shook his head fiercely, trying to jump-start his forebrain. "Say what you were saying," he demanded, every Slytherin instinct rallied by the quest for more information. Better information, at least; the sort he could use. "Tell me…more. More of what you were saying, just now. Please."

"Well…" Harry licked his lips and flushed, gaze darting away. "Um." Draco grasped his chin in an effort to keep Harry's attention where it ought to properly be: on him.

"Hey, Harry. Harry? Please?"

"Um," Harry blushed, casting his gaze downwards. "Maybe this isn't the time or the place—Albus is. Here. Er? For the duration, you know. I can't leave the office. And the Ministry really doesn't-"

"Harry, no," Draco prodded softly, running his hands down Harry's ribs to coax him. "Don't stop now. It's been seven months, Harry, and not one word from you. Please."

"I. Er. Ah?"

Harry blushed all the brighter. But he seemed very pleased.

"Ahem. Well. I know you're the one I've wanted for ages." His voice was shy and ever so soft. Draco went hot and then hotter, hearing it. His hold tightened upon his armful of deliciously fuckable Auror quite unconsciously. "And you?" Harry glared at him, just for a blip of a second. "Well, you're a cad and a git and all that; I know that, always have, but still the only one I've truly wanted." Harry's lashes fluttered down; Draco couldn't help but brush the tip of his nose against the pert end of Harry's, he was so overtaken by the sheer want of it. "Ever. All along. All this time. Despite marrying Gin."

"And? What else, Harry?" Draco breathed, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing, hardly daring, in fact, to believe this wasn't a very nice, exceptionally well-detailed fantasy. "What d'you know?"

"I know." Harry was hardly audible but that was all right because he had his mouth right up against Draco's ear. Draco shivered. "I know that I—I care for you and that you care for me, because you'd not have bothered otherwise, coming here, looking for me. You'd have just sued, like you threatened to, just now. But you didn't, did you? And I know you're a good dad—and that—"


"I've missed you." Harry drew back, straining to peer upwards; they were so much melded together. "Very much. I've really, truly missed you, all these months, Asp—Draco. Have you—have you missed me?"

"Merlin, yes!" Draco hissed, wasting no time in crushing his mouth against the parted bow of Harry's, his arms clamping tightly, never letting go. Never leaving go. "Oh, fuck yes," he panted, drawing back only to peck and nibble between gasps. "So much. You don't even know—you can't know, can you? Since you're stupid and speccy-blind and you didn't bother to stick round to discover for yourself, idiot man!"

"Oh, I know, alright," Harry laughed gaily under the onslaught of kisses being peppered all across his cheeks and chin. "I'm in the same damned shape." He wriggled his hips where they rested against Draco's, and Draco couldn't deny his prick had met its fated match, were it on the hunt for a fellow with equally desperate interest. Which they'd both been, and been clearly successful seeking same. They both moaned at the increase in pressure, closing their eyes and falling together, lips and fingers busily about.

Harry crowed triumph with a giggle. "Come on; show me how much, then—mmphff!"

"Desk!" Draco snarled viciously, when he was done with kissing Harry breathless for the moment, and bumped their two hips against the corner meaningfully. "Desk. Flat. Back. Now."

"Yes." Harry agreed. "Please." He fell gracelessly backwards, dragging Draco along with him. "Yes."

"Taking you. Having you." Draco cupped Harry's luscious bum with a spare hand, the one that wasn't occupied with holding him pinned to his own blotter by one shoulder. He squeezed each buttock meaningfully, moving to caress the sac that lay firm and drawn tight between them. "Harry."

"Dry?" Harry gasped, his hands shoving frantically at the cloth rucked up between them. "Really? You animal!"

"Idiot. 'Course not," Draco sneered as he yanked the hand off and summoned lubrication with a practiced snap. "Not an uncivilized cretin. Get naked."

"Course not." Harry obligingly banished their robes and pants with his wand before he dropped it. He scooted back onto the desktop, causing files to fly unheeded everywhere, writing instruments to clatter off and roll away and the blotter to slip sideways. "Never that. Come on, then. Here I am, eh? What are you waiting for? Ahh!"

"Harry. Oh, fuck, Harry."

The hand, coated with conjured oil, made contact.



All was then a matter of bit-back breathy moans and steamy hisses of pleasure, skin heating skin, and Harry thrusting his hips into the practiced swivel of long fingers, writhing atop his own work surface as he did . And a blazing pillar of monumentally turned-on Malfoy man, bearing down with a vengeance and a will to please.

"Wider," Draco ordered abruptly, as Harry struggled to make ready, his arse slippery on the polished wood, as the blotter was long gone, along with the lube-and sweat-stained files. "Knees well up—spread them. Not waiting. No longer. I want to see you. Taste you. Take you."

"Mmm," Harry moaned, eyelids clenched in pleasure. "Yes, please. Can't wait. Missed you in me—missed you so much. Hurry!"

"Me, neither—wait! Wait!"

Draco halted as if struck with a random stunner, his gaze sharpening on Harry's twitching belly, hands poised mid-air. There was a scar there, a new one. Faded by magical healing, yes, but there it was, undeniable.

"Shit! Shit, fuck, shit."

"Oh, ah?" Harry's mouth and eyes rounded in surprise. "Oi? Draco?" His kneecaps sagged outwards in a slow double-arc as he struggled up on an elbow, grabbing at Draco's bowed neck for balance. "What's the matter? Why're you stopping now?"

"Birth," Draco replied tersely, eyeing the teasing remnant of Harry's barely visibly incision, one of many scars silver-striping his naked body like tattoos of honour. "Fuck! You just gave it. Five days, Potter. It's been five days. I checked the records. That's too soon. Too damned soon, Harry. That can't possibly be enough time to fully recover. Healer never should've released you. We can't—fuck, but we can't. We can't fucking shag, not now. I can't risk it. Not with you."

"Draco," Harry wheedled, flapping a hand carelessly. "Don't be ridiculous. Magic, remember? Fully fit to go. Cleared by the, er, best. Well, Healer says it's so, but, um. Do. Carry on."

"No, gods no, Harry!" Draco groaned his abrupt and total despair, collapsing forward and down under the weight of his own good conscience, so that he sprawled between Harry's legs and his sweat-damp forehead pressed hard into Harry's collarbone, denting the skin white. "Don't ask me. Don't. It's too—damned—soon. Too soon."


"Mmm. Fuck me. Damn it."


There was a small silence, as Harry panted fitfully and Draco gritted his teeth, willing his painfully pressing erection to subside.

"…That much?" Harry's question was very small, tenuous in the sudden restless quiet filling his office, where the only noises to be heard were the sounds of a napping infant, his two fathers' stricken gasps as they each grasped desperately for control over raging hormones and the faint hum generated by the haphazard door-warding spells they'd both cast going into this debacle of unfulfilled lust. "Draco?"

"Yes." Draco swallowed with difficulty, so painfully hard his Adam's apple dragged against the smooth warm skin of Harry's shoulder. Clenched his eyelids so tight his lashes knotted into damp tangles and fisted his hands in a frightful effort to stand down. Why was nothing ever easy when it came to Potter? he asked of himself. And had to chuckle rather bitterly as he replied, "Yes, of course. What did you think, Potter? That I was kidding? It's on video, all I said. To you. How I—for you." He laughed again, a melancholy chuckle. "Every word, every time. Gods, but I'm an idiot. Proof enough, isn't it? Want to watch?"

"Oh. I thought." Harry gulped, his hands carefully reaching up, only to come to a butterfly-light landing on Draco's waist and bowed nape. "I had thought it was just…attraction. Sexual, mostly." He shrugged slightly, more a worried twitch than anything. "You know, a little…pash, maybe, on your part? Not serious, like, but, ah. Useful? Relieving? Mmm...maybe just a little fling, work it off-out. Or something. Like. That."

"No." Grey eyes blinked open, steady on, piercingly honest. "Not just—"

"Sort of had a plan, me. That I could have my cake," Harry continued as if he hadn't heard, "and eat it too. Take advantage of Asp a bit," he humped a shoulder carelessly. "His reputation, you know? His Club. But not to hurt you. Only to have the chance, once and for all—I wanted a chance."

"No." Lashes brushed damp skin and maybe they were a bit damp, as well. Draco batted them fast, in any event, so they'd dry out. "No, Harry. Not only that. Good as it was. Not by chance, not a fling. More, Harry. Always more."

"Because I've been—I've felt—I mean, they all know, my mates, how it is with me, all this time—and you—and I—I thought maybe—Draco."

"Harry," Draco's face turned, lips sliding along Harry's jaw, finding his mouth rather frantically in an effort to stop the flow of stupid. Because it was stupid, how Harry was selectively deaf all the sudden. "Harry, please! Shut your mouth. Stop talking. Don't make this harder than it already is. Me, I mean, harder. Fit to burst, and not even in you. Gonna come if you say it. Going. To. Come."

"I was so pleased, so happy." Harry shifted slightly, rolling onto one shoulder and tangling his legs into his lover's as his weight forced Draco's to adjust accordingly. "I was just so happy, to hear. When Healer sorted it out, what was wrong with me."

"Nothing wrong with you," Draco mumbled, grimacing. "Just perfect, you are. Little sod. Oh, fuck me but that smarts!"

"Draco." Harry's pelvis rolled, his bum slithering on the wood as he groaned. "Draco."

"—your fault, Harry—"

"No, I know; sorry, but listen—Listen."

They were both so very hard still despite the cold-water shock of simply halting, full-stop, their cocks so rigid it pained each of them in equal degree, but somehow in a most brilliant way. As if this was a part of it, a planned foreplay, and coming untouched, likely any moment now—a delicious prospect. Harry grinned, all and any regret fled, his passing shyness naught but a whispering memory, unmourned.

"To be told it was yours," he forged on, not minding the long lot of well-muscled Wizard crushing him in the least. "That Albus was yours, Draco. I'd always have a piece of you with me that way, part of me—forever."

"—oh, Harry—" Lube and dripping pre-come and rubbing-brushing-pushing together: it was all entirely too, too much for a hungering man to bear. Draco's chest was stuttering as he arched his neck and rolled his head across his bent arm and into the musky crook of Harry's neck, barely able to listen, much as he wished to hear. "Harry."

As for Harry, his spate of words rolled out untempered by caution. And he in motion, always in motion, hands and hips and pelvis in concerted effort to cling, to shove, to grind up-and-in, as though he was strongly magnetized and the man beside him, clambering half atop him in his haste, Harry's perpetual draw.

"That I could keep, regardless," Harry talked on, low voice thready but true, steadfast. Draco shuddered to the thrum of it as his slit gouted gorgeous dribbles, sliming up his lover's skin like unset glue.

"Shut up, Harry-please. Not now, not now"

Harry moaned, twitching in response to the heat of it, and talked on, made bold. "And I wanted it known, somehow, that he was yours as much as mine, so—Albus. Severus. Potter. A. S. P., Draco. I named him after you—because I love—I've always—ah. Ah-ohhh….ohgod-ohgodddd-dah! Da-da-fah! Draco!"

"Yessss! That's it-that's it, that's it. YES!"

By Harry's, beside Harry's, was another cock spurting, pulsing, pumping. White pearly stringy liquid sprayed and scattered, a messy gooey webbing binding two jerking, dry-humping, fit male bodies all that much more together.

"Come on, more, More, Harry, more! Hah! Ahah! Ha-Har—Harry!"

"Oh god-oh-for-chrissake-ohfuckingshit!"

They came, unceremoniously, with barely a conscious touch and naught of an active hand helping, nor any stroke other than the mere accidental. It was profoundly glorious.

"Oh god," Harry's eyes popped open after a long moment, a very long moment. Eons, perhaps. "Seriously?" He glanced down between them as they lay, assessing the evidence. The very filthily dirty sexy evidence: two not-quite-spent pricks and a bucket load of come spread between them, squishing. One very unpolished desk top, glimpsed beneath in patches. "Oh, god, did I just…did I just come like? Like?"

"A teenage twat? As I just did, thank you ever so very much?" Draco tried scowling; succumbed to giggling instead. His brain had dribbled out his ears, apparently impelled by the force of his ejaculation. Whatever—he felt really fine. Really fine.

"Hmmph!" Harry huffed, looking away, instantly miffed. Stupid pregnancy hormones; they'd yet to subside. "About that—sorry, I didn't mean—I am so. Very."

"Oh, don't apologize." Draco made use of his long arms and longer legs to yank a limp Potter closer, so close he couldn't possibly look away or even turn his head to try it, little git. "Same here, yeah? Didn't mind it, either. Nice to know that actually happens, Harry."


"Well, I've always thought it was an urban legend." Draco shrugged amiably, all smiles. "You know, like those eckletrick toothbrushes Muggles say they've created. Self-charmed, aren't they? Supposed to be, I heard. Nonsense and bosh. Never happen."

"Eh? Legend? What? Sheesh, those are real, Draco, for fuck's sake! But, I—you!"

"I know, Harry, oh, I do know, believe me," Draco grinned, more tentatively. "Um, why do you think I? All this time. Er—well. Ahem." He cleared his throat, dropped a quick fond peck on Harry's nose and pulled away with his smile dialled back to utterly brilliant setting and his eyes alight with smug, sweet glee. "Was still excellent, no matter how it actually happened, Harry. Let's do it again, shall we? Right now."

"Um…that's nice, thank you-er! But—but. No-ohhh—oh-oh!" Harry, squirming, was cut short, snogged into compliant quiet.

"Shush," Draco muttered quickly and kissed his lover again. Enthusiastically. "You'll wake the baby."

Too late. In the corner, parked on level with the faux view looking out towards sunny Hogsmeade High Street, Albus Severus Potter blithely kicked his bootied heels out of his knitted green-and-silver-and-Cannon-orange Granma Molly-made afghan. Blew a larger, rounder spit-bubble, just for practice. And fingered the hand-sewn letters—A, S, P—on his quilt, for curiosity's sake. Frowned imperiously at the empty air, for the fun of it.

"—mmrhm!—" One of his two Papas moaned sensuously from somewhere nearby. Albus Severus worked up another gummy smile. "Oh!"

His tiny tummy grumbled suddenly, setting up an inpatient ruckus within, disrupting his happy moment. He rumpled up his very small Potterian nose at it, jerked from his pleasant contemplation of the falling dust motes sparkling in the spelled sunlight. Opened his wee mouth wider, and this time with purpose. Meeped.



"You know?" Draco carried on remarking, not minding at all Harry's dazzled blinking and also somehow not quite catching the warning 'meep', either. He was distracted, perhaps because his head was still spinning wildly off balance, all newly re-made of candyfloss and rose petals red. "May as well have taken an advert out in the Prophet, yeah? The two of us making damned fine arses of ourselves, right out in public, for all the world to see."


"Me, daring you, challenging you, just by having my Club, drawing in all the high muckity-mucks and waiting for you to stroll your Auror arse in one fine day and check it out for possible sex crimes violations. On a lark, maybe, or only because you were curious. I knew you'd be curious, Harry—I just knew. And then you, finally—finally, Harry, and what took you so long?—coming to me. To me, Harry, just as I wished it, just as it had to be, was meant to be."

"Oh, but, wait—"

"No, shut it. Listen, won't you? 'Cause rumour had it right and proper, Harry; you know it did. About your marriage, about your wife. Was all over the Leaky, what your mate Weasley said, whom it is your wife really fancied, but…You don't know how much I wanted to believe it was for real, all that gossip, or how much I wanted you—waited and waited, so patient."

"Erm, real—"

"Ah—ah-ahhh. AHHHHH-EEEEHHH!" Gone were the moments of semi-polite baby Potter. A wail hit the air like a Muggle WWII siren, shattering the Moment his parents were having.

"Draco, shhh!" Harry stuck his mouth over his lover's in a hasty attempt to shush him. "Stop! Al's waking up!"


"No," Draco replied, in a decidedly clipped tone, his features gone severe and very Malfoyarian. "I'd say 'Al's' awake now, Harry. Certainly. Yes."


"Oh god!" Harry swore, flopping defeated off his wobbly elbows. "Dawson's going to have my bloody head! The noise!"

"No fear," Draco replied calmly. "He's likely just hungry, Harry." He began the process of extricating them from each other, scanning the room all the while, and summoning castaway clothing. "Where's your bag, then? I'll give him his feed."

"Over there. Top of the cabinet." Harry danced a set of very lazy fingers in the proper direction. Coming had quite wrung him dry. As Draco had said—only just five days since. Too damned soon.

"Oh, yes," Draco was up, pants and trousers on, already striding toward it. "Perfect, thanks." A warm damp cloth magically appeared on Harry's scarred abdomen, gently wiping away the drying mess. "Got it. Here—and don't you dare budge from there, Potter. Stay put."


Harry lay where he was, enjoying the impromptu tidying. Enjoying as well the view of a tall blond dapper chap, the Wizard sometimes known as 'Asp', scooping up a tiny dark-haired baby boy and promptly cradling him to his care chest, a warmed bottle on offer. Relishing the picture of the chap's fit bum descending gracefully into a neatly transfigured rocking chair made form a nearby filing cabinet, his strong bare arms flexing carefully about their colourfully swaddled issue. And he practically hummed with a species of gloating happiness over the sound of Asp cooing nonsense, utter soppy sick-making rot, to the delicate sound of pleased suckling.

"Oh," Harry murmured, rousing after a bit and lazily noting his robes had been spot-cleaned, his files tidied. His desk was absolutely glossy, blotter pristine under his bum. "You're a piece of work, Malfoy. You know that? Smooth, very smooth. I like."

"Hmm?" Malfoy glanced up, curiously. His eyes sharpened instantly, giving Harry a fast once-over. "What, Harry? You all right there?"

"Well." Harry flung a hand out, indicating the rocking chair, the happy infant, his own state of relaxed and pleasant consciousness. The very air, which smelt of citrus and salt and…the scent of lingering sex, was delightful. "I'm very well, ta. Excessively well. And all this." He gestured to the recent improvements as he tugged on his pants and then his trousers. "This is good. More than. You'd better be careful, Asp."

"Why?" The curiosity crinkled into a ready grin. "Problem, Potter?'

"Well…" Harry grinned insouciantly, finally pulling his undershirt over his rumpled mop, having buckled his belt. The remainder of his kit he left as they were. "Any competent Auror would conclude you were wooing me, Draco Malfoy," he purred eyes glinting jade. "That's all. Have a care. You'll turn my head."

"That's ever so brilliant," Draco retorted, grinning, "of you to notice, Auror. Maybe I am. Come to any final conclusions, then?"

"I," Harry smiled, sliding off the desk to saunter in the direction of the rocking chair, "accept."

"You—" A startled Draco began.

"Shhh. Your turn to listen." Harry brushed the tumbled blond fringe off an unscarred brow and then dropped his hand to lay a gentle palm on wee Albus's whiff of sticking-up black curls.

"What you're offering. Wholeheartedly," he continued, leaning down to brush thistledown kisses on both heads, blond and brunet. He drew back reluctantly, gaze softer than mosses in a summer's glade. "Completely. Yes, please. Bring it on."

"About that, Harry, there's the one little matter yet," Draco frowned, burping the satisfied baby as he glanced up at his hovering lover. "One we should sort out as soon as we—"

"With one condition." Harry had donned his serious face whilst Draco blinked. He nodded toward their love child before his eyes narrowed, zeroing in on Draco's incipient tension. "Just the one."

"What—what?" Draco exclaimed, irked. "Why conditions, Potter? I'm the one with the conditions! Our son's name, for fuck's sake, is not and will never be 'Alb—"

"Ahem. No."

Harry cleared his throat meaningfully. Draco resisted lunging out of the rocking chair and biting at the bob of his Adam's apple but it was a near thing.

"His name stays as it is, Draco. No changing it now; he likes it. I like it. And you—"

"Potter, no!" A wave of pleasure suffused Draco. They were to be married. Well, they were to be first divorced and then they were to be married—but still! Still, beyond the heady rush was the knowledge Harry was being a devious twat and likely bent on manipulating him. Possibly had manipulated him rather a lot already. For a pressing armful of warm, wiry affectionate Wizard had Draco rendered rapidly inarticulate—or mayhap it was the fact Potter leant in, very close, and licked him, right at the round of Draco's admittedly slightly antagonistic chin, and was purring at him, eyes slitted and mysterious and smug-like. Like a bloody cat.

"And you, Asp, my love," Harry murmured, having possessed himself of sleepy infant and having managed to somehow, likely magically, insert himself upon Draco's interested lap, "Draco, my so very dear, the one and only constellation in my personal universe—you."

"Oi, Harry!" Draco's ear's burnt, scarlet fire. "Gods!" He swallowed at the pleasant glitter in those very green eyes. "No, no, no, you're not. You're not doing this to me, Harry Potter." Not blue, no, and not masked. Green. Decidedly. "You cannot possibly mean to make me swallow this outrage down—"

"Will learn to love it, too, I'm sure," Harry smiled sweetly, inexorably, well aware his lover had just come to the inevitable conclusion he was fucked, but good. "It's a good name,' Albus'." And cocked his head, just so, clearly considering the veracity of his claim. "Well. In time you will. I think."

"Harry!" This, Draco wasn't willing to take laying down. Nor lightly. "Potter!"

"Shh! Jesus, Draco!" He was frantically shushed. "Baby, yeah? Sleeping? Fuck this for a lark—shut up!" And then silenced Draco Malfoy in the best of all possible ways—by force.

"Oof! Oh! Harry—Harry!"

Last but not least is information that has been altered or has undergone modification since the start of our cautionary tale. Some knowledge, however, remains the same. To wit:

The Wizengamot will grant divorce decrees quite willingly, if all parties show the necessary evidences that none have been or will be harmed and providing any issue of the dissolved bond will be lovingly cared for after the fact.

Some people can indeed act in a civilized fashion, despite the Press.

The Ministry now offers paternity leave benefits. No questions asked. So does Club ASP, incidentally.

Old friends are the best friends; the very best.

Children do very well in an extended family situation and benefit directly from their parents' personal happiness.

True love will out. Eventually.

'Albus' is a perfectly acceptable name for a Malfoy and indeed, for a Slytherin. And a Head Boy.