Chapter 6: The Guest List and the Tongue
The guest list sat between them like a living thing—parchment covered in Draco's precise, angular handwriting, names crossed out and added and crossed out again until the page looked like a battlefield.
Harry had stopped counting the arguments three names ago.
"Pansy Parkinson," Draco said, tapping the name with her quill. "She's my oldest friend. She's coming."
"Absolutely not."
"She's changed."
"People don't change that much."
"You did."
Harry looked up from the list. "That's different."
"How?"
"I didn't hex you in the back at a Ministry function."
Draco's lips twitched. "She apologized for that."
"She apologized to you. She sent me a letter that said 'sorry you're still alive.'"
"She's got a dark sense of humor."
"She's got a dark everything." Harry set down his quill and pressed his fingers to his temples. "Draco, two years ago she tried to set my robes on fire at the Auror Christmas party."
"That was an accident."
"She was aiming."
"She was drunk."
"Both things can be true."
Draco sighed. The sound was long and theatrical, the kind of sigh she'd perfected over years of dealing with difficult people—which, in her defense, had mostly been her family.
"She won't cause problems at the wedding," Draco said. "I'll keep her on a short leash."
"You'll be busy marrying me."
"I can multitask."
"Draco—"
"Harry."
They stared at each other. The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, London was grey and wet, rain streaking the windows in lazy diagonals.
"Fine," Harry said. "Pansy can come. But if she so much as looks at my wand arm, she's out."
"Noted." Draco scribbled something next to Pansy's name. "Now—about the Zabinis."
"What about them?"
"Blaise wants to bring his new boyfriend. He's a Muggle."
Harry blinked. "So?"
"So nothing. I'm just telling you."
"Draco, I'm a half-blood who was raised by Muggles. Do you think I have a problem with Muggles?"
"No. But my mother does. And she'll be there."
"Your mother's not on the guest list."
Draco's quill stopped moving.
The silence stretched.
"Harry," she said slowly, "we haven't actually discussed whether she's coming."
"I assumed she wasn't."
"She's my mother."
"She told you I was beneath you. She called my blood mud. She said our marriage wouldn't last a year." Harry's voice was even—too even—and he saw Draco flinch at the memory. "You want to invite her?"
"I didn't say I wanted to. I said we haven't discussed it."
"Then let's discuss it." He leaned back against the couch. "Right now."
Draco set down the quill. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, and for a moment she looked small. Young. Not the polished pureblood princess who had held a room of Sacred Twenty-Eight families captive with a single smile.
"She's a nightmare," Draco said. "She's cold and cruel and she's spent my entire life trying to sculpt me into something I'm not."
Harry waited.
"She also raised me alone after my father went to Azkaban. She stood by him when everyone else abandoned our family. She protected me when I was on trial, even though she could have saved herself by turning me over to the Ministry." Draco's voice cracked, just slightly. "She's terrible, Harry. But she's my terrible."
Harry was quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Invite her."
Draco's head snapped up. "What?"
"I said invite her." He reached over and took her hand. "I don't like her. She doesn't like me. She probably never will. But she's your mother, and if she's not at your wedding, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."
Draco's eyes were wet. She blinked fast, the way she always did when she was trying not to cry.
"You're infuriating," she said.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
Harry raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. The ring caught the firelight—sapphires, diamond, platinum. It had been his mother's ring. He'd never shown it to anyone before Draco.
"She'll behave," he said. "Or I'll have her escorted out by Aurors."
"You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would."
Draco laughed. It was a wet sound, half-sob, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand in a way that was thoroughly un-Malfoy.
"You're a ridiculous man," she said.
"And yet you're marrying me."
"Clearly I've lost my mind."
She leaned into him. The guest list crinkled between them, a casualty of the moment, and Harry put his arm around her and pulled her close. She smelled like lilies and something sharper—the quill ink, maybe, or the tea she'd been drinking.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"Arrogant."
"Learned from the best."
They sat like that for a while. The fire popped. The rain fell. The world outside the flat kept spinning, but in here it was just the two of them and the list and the quiet.
Then Draco stretched.
It was an innocent thing. Just an arch of her back and a roll of her shoulders, a yawn that she didn't quite bother to stifle. But the movement pulled her dress tight across her chest and rode the hem up her thighs, and Harry's eyes tracked the motion without his permission.
He tried to look away.
He really did.
But the dress had bunched at her waist now, and her legs were bare—she'd kicked off her stockings hours ago—and the firelight was warm on her skin.
Draco caught him looking.
"That was fast," she said.
"What?"
"You went from discussing seating arrangements to undressing me with your eyes in under three seconds."
"I didn't—"
"You did."
"I was looking at the list."
"The list is on the couch. You were looking at my legs."
"You have nice legs."
"I know I do."
She turned toward him, and the dress shifted again. He could see her collarbone now, the pale column of her throat, the slope of her breasts beneath the silk.
"You're doing this on purpose," he said.
"Doing what?"
"Being distracting."
"I'm just sitting here."
"You're sitting there looking like that."
"Like what?"
"Like—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You know."
Draco smiled. It was a slow, dangerous thing, the kind of smile that had preceded every bad decision he'd ever made with her, and he knew—absolutely knew—that he should pick up the list and keep planning and be a responsible adult.
But her dress was still bunched at her waist, and the fire was warm, and she was looking at him like she wanted to be devoured.
Fuck the list.
He leaned forward.
Draco met him halfway, and the kiss was not gentle. It was teeth and tongues and the muffled sound she made when he pulled her against his chest, and the guest list slid off the cushions onto the floor, forgotten.
"Planning can wait," he said against her mouth.
"Thank God."
He pushed her down onto the cushions.
The couch was soft—some absurdly expensive thing she'd bought to spite her mother, she'd told him once—and she sank into it with a gasp, her platinum hair fanning out across the throw pillow. Harry positioned himself above her, one knee between her thighs, and looked down.
She was beautiful.
She was always beautiful.
But like this—flushed and breathless and wanting—she was something else entirely.
"You're staring," she said.
"Problem?"
"No." Her hand found his shirt and fisted the fabric. "Just don't stop."
He didn't plan to.
He kissed her again, slower this time. Deeper. He bit her lower lip and she moaned, and he traced the sound into her mouth with his tongue while his hand slid down her side, her hip, her thigh.
Then he pushed the dress up.
It was already bunched at her waist. All it took was a single motion to send it higher, past her hips, past her stomach, and she wasn't wearing anything underneath—no knickers, no barrier—just her, bare and wet and waiting.
"You're soaked," he said.
"I've been sitting here for an hour with your eyes on me."
"Could've said something."
"I wanted to see how long you'd last."
"You're a menace."
"You love it."
He did.
He loved everything about her—the sharp edges and the soft surrender and the way she'd dropped to her knees in the changing rooms three months ago and offered herself to him with no guarantees and no promises and no expectations.
He loved her.
But right now, love wasn't the primary emotion.
Right now, he wanted to taste her.
He slid down her body. Kissed her stomach, the jut of her hipbone, the inside of her thigh. She shivered under his mouth, and when he finally dragged his tongue through her cunt, she arched off the couch with a cry that was half curse and half his name.
"Fuck—Harry—"
He didn't answer.
He was busy.
She tasted like salt and want and something sweeter underneath, and he licked her slow and deep, dragging his tongue from her entrance to her clit and back again. Her hands found his hair, her nails scraping his scalp, and her thighs closed around his ears like a vice.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you dare stop—"
He had no intention of stopping.
He worked her with his mouth, with his tongue, with the flat of his teeth when she needed more. She was dripping now—wet enough that his chin was soaked, wet enough that he could hear the obscene sounds of him lapping at her—and her hips were rocking against his face in a rhythm that was falling apart.
"Harry—"
He sucked her clit hard.
She screamed.
Not a moan. Not a gasp. A scream—raw and throaty and desperate—and her body clenched under him, around him, and when she finally relaxed, she was trembling like a leaf in a storm.
He climbed up her body and kissed her.
She tasted herself on his tongue. Usually she made a face. This time she just pulled him closer.
"Bedroom," she said.
"What?"
"Bedroom. Now."
"I thought you wanted—"
"Now, Potter."
He picked her up.
She weighed nothing—she never had—and she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder as he carried her down the hall.
The bedroom was dark. He didn't bother with the light.
He laid her on the bed and stripped off his shirt and trousers, and she watched him with hooded eyes and a smile that promised everything.
"Hurry up," she said.
"Impatient."
"Always."
He climbed onto the bed. Positioned himself between her thighs. Pushed her legs apart and settled against her, the head of his cock sliding through her wetness, teasing her entrance.
"Harry—"
"I know."
He pushed inside her.
Her back arched. Her nails found his shoulders. And for a moment—one perfect, crystalline moment—there was nothing but heat and tightness and the way her body opened for him like it had been waiting.
"Move," she gasped.
He moved.
He fucked her slow at first. Deep strokes that pulled almost all the way out before pressing all the way back in. She moaned with every thrust, her legs wrapping around his waist, her hips rising to meet him.
"Harder," she demanded.
He gave her harder.
The bed creaked. The headboard hit the wall. She was clawing at his back now—broken nails and bright red lines—and he knew he'd have scratches in the morning, knew he'd wear them like a badge.
"More," she said.
He gave her more.
His hips snapped against hers, a brutal rhythm that had her gasping, sobbing, chanting his name like a prayer. Sweat dripped from his forehead to her chest. Her hair was a mess, a silver tangle spread across the pillow.
And she was beautiful.
She was always beautiful.
But like this—fucked within an inch of her life, surrounded by broken walls, trusting him completely—she was everything.
"I'm close," she said. "I'm—"
"Come."
"You first."
"Together."
"Fuck—"
He drove into her one final time and came.
The orgasm ripped through him like a wildfire. He heard her scream—heard her body clench around his cock—and he buried his face in her throat and groaned her name against her skin.
"Draco—"
She shuddered. Held him. Kissed the sweat from his temple and whispered something that might have been "I love you" and might have been "don't move."
They stayed like that for a long time.
When he finally pulled out, his legs were shaking. He collapsed beside her on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing hard.
"Fuck," he said.
"Yeah."
"We're never going to finish that guest list."
"Definitely not."
"Your mother's going to come to the wedding whether we invite her or not."
"Probably."
"And Pansy's going to try something."
"Almost certainly."
"So we're just going to have the world's most chaotic wedding."
Draco turned her head. Her smile was soft. Warm. The kind of smile he'd never seen from her in public, the kind she saved for moments like this.
"Yes," she said. "But it'll be ours."
Harry laughed. He pulled her close. She tucked herself against his side, her head on his chest, and he could feel her heartbeat slowing as the adrenaline faded.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
They lay in the dark. The rain had stopped. The city was quiet. And somewhere in the living room, the guest list lay on the floor—half-finished, covered in scribbles, forgotten.
Harry didn't care.
Draco was warm against him. Her breathing was slowing. And when she finally fell asleep, he kissed her hair and closed his eyes.
The list could wait.
It was just paper.
This—this was real.
This—this was real.
Her weight against his ribs. The slow tide of her breathing. The faint tackiness of sweat drying on his chest where her cheek pressed. He wanted to bottle the moment—seal it under glass, keep it somewhere safe from the world that would inevitably come knocking.
But the world always knocked.
It knocked two days later in the form of a Howler from Narcissa that exploded over breakfast, shrieking about blood traitors and disgraces and "how dare you embarrass this family" until Draco calmly Vanished the smoking remains and poured herself another cup of tea.
It knocked a week later when the Prophet ran a front-page spread—POTTER'S PUREBLOOD BRIDE: LOVE OR LOVELESS?—complete with grainy photographs of them at the gala. Harry read it over coffee, snorted at the speculation, and tossed it in the fire.
It knocked every day after that. Owls. Floos. Unwanted visitors. Robards called him into the office twice to "strongly suggest" he hire private security. Draco started screening her post with a hex that singed the fingers of anyone who touched it without her permission.
But the knocking didn't matter.
Not when he came home to find her asleep on the couch with a book open on her chest. Not when she woke up and smiled at him like he was the best thing she'd ever seen. Not when she crawled into his lap and kissed him slow and deep and whispered things against his mouth that made him forget his own name.
The wedding planning limped along.
They'd settled on a venue—a small conservatory in Wiltshire that belonged to an elderly half-blood witch who owed Harry a favor. They'd agreed on a date—the fifteenth of June, a Saturday, exactly seven weeks away. They'd argued about flowers for three days straight before Draco threw up her hands and declared she was hiring a planner.
"We're not hiring a planner," Harry had said.
"We are. I can't do this and run the estate. And you're useless at centerpieces."
"I'm not useless."
"You suggested carnations."
"What's wrong with carnations?"
"Everything, Potter. Everything."
She'd hired the planner the next morning.
Now—two weeks after the guest list had hit the floor, two weeks after he'd fucked her into the mattress while the city slept—Harry sat at the kitchen table, staring at a parchment that listed the pros and cons of three different cake flavors.
Draco was late coming home.
That wasn't unusual. She'd taken over managing the Malfoy estate's remaining assets—a task that involved endless negotiations with lawyers and accountants and the occasional hostile cousin. She'd been gone since ten that morning. The clock on the wall said four.
Harry made tea. Read the Prophet. Ignored the third owl of the day.
Then the Floo flared green and Draco stepped out.
She looked tired. Pale. Her hair was escaping its twist, and there were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there this morning. But she smiled when she saw him—that soft, private smile—and crossed the room to kiss him.
"You're home," she said.
"Figured I'd wait. How was the meeting?"
"Exhausting. The solicitor is an idiot." She hung her cloak on the hook by the door. "How was your day?"
"Quiet. I finished the paperwork for the Carkitt case."
"Good."
She didn't sit down.
Harry noticed. He noticed the way her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers fidgeting against each other. The way she was standing a little too straight. The way her eyes kept darting toward him and then away.
"Draco."
"Yes?"
"Something's wrong."
Her chin lifted. "Nothing's wrong."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying. I'm just—" She stopped. Took a breath. "I'm just thinking about something."
"What?" The future. Things."
"That's vague."
"It's complicated."
Harry set down his tea. "Sit down."
"I'd rather stand."
"Why?"
"Because I've been sitting all day and my back hurts and I want to stand." The words came out sharp, defensive, and she winced at her own tone. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap."
"You're allowed to snap."
"Am I?"
"I married you for your charm, not your manners."
"I'm not married to you yet."
"Details."
She didn't smile.
That—that was when the cold started creeping up his spine. Draco smiled at everything. She smiled when she was angry. She smiled when she was sad. She smiled when she was plotting someone's downfall. The only time she didn't smile was when something was genuinely, catastrophically wrong.
"Draco." He stood. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"You're scaring me."
"I'm not trying to scare you."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
She reached into her pocket.
What she pulled out was small. White. Plastic—Muggle plastic, the kind Hermione had explained to him once when they were kids, the kind that didn't belong in a witch's robe.
A pregnancy test.
Harry stared at it.
The world went very quiet.
"There are three more in the bathroom," Draco said. Her voice was steady. Too steady—the kind of steady that came from forcing every emotion down where it couldn't show. "They all say the same thing."
Harry didn't move.
"Harry."
"I'm—" He stopped. Tried again. "You're—"
"Pregnant." The word fell between them like a stone in still water. "I'm pregnant."
The silence stretched.
Harry's brain was a storm—thoughts whipping past too fast to catch, memories and fears and hopes all tangled together. He thought about the first time he'd seen her in that Quidditch jersey, five years ago, when she'd been just Malfoy and he'd been just Potter and the war had only been a year over. He thought about the changing rooms two months ago, when she'd dropped to her knees and surrendered everything without a single word. He thought about the gala. The trophy case. The way she'd screamed his name loud enough for the whole world to hear.
He thought about a child.
A child with her eyes. Her smirk. Her impossible, infuriating stubbornness. A child who would grow up loved—really loved—the way neither of them had been. Not with coldness and expectation and the weight of blood. With warmth. With mess. With Saturday mornings in the kitchen and Sunday afternoons in the park and someone who always, always came home.
"Harry." Draco's voice cracked. "Say something."
He crossed the room.
He didn't stop until he was in front of her, until he could take her face in his hands, until he could look into those grey eyes that had haunted him for five years.
"You're pregnant," he said.
"Yes."
"With our baby."
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He kissed her.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't tender. It was desperate and hungry and full of everything he couldn't figure out how to say—fear and joy and terror and wonder. She made a sound against his mouth, something between a sob and a laugh, and her hands found his shoulders and held on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.
When they broke apart, her eyes were wet.
"Are you happy?" she asked. "You're allowed to not be happy. It's fast. It's complicated. It's—"
"Shut up."
"Excuse me—"
"Shut up and let me think."
She shut up.
Harry pressed his forehead to hers. Breathed her in. Lilies. Tea. The faint, sharp scent of the ink she'd been using all day. Home.
"I'm terrified," he said.
"Me too."
"I have no idea how to be a father."
"Neither do I. My father was a monster."
"We're going to be terrible at this."
"Probably."
"Our child is going to be spoiled rotten."
"Absolutely."
"And overprotected."
"Horribly."
"And loved." His voice broke. "So fucking loved."
Draco made a sound—a wet, broken thing—and pulled him closer.
"Harry."
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I love you too."
She pulled back. Looked at him. The smile was back now—small and shaky and real.
"We're having a baby," she said.
"We're having a baby."
"You're going to be a father."
"You're going to be a mother."
"Oh God." Her face went pale. "I'm going to be someone's mother. I don't know how to be a mother. I don't know how to do any of this. I'm going to ruin everything—"
"Draco."
"Both my parents were horrible. What if it's genetic? What if I'm horrible? What if—"
He kissed her again.
Slower this time. Softer. He pulled her into his arms and held her while she shook. The panic would fade—he knew it would, because he knew her—but right now she needed to fall apart and he needed to catch her.
So he caught her.
The test slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor. Neither of them noticed. They stood in the kitchen, tangled together beneath the fading light, and let the world rearrange itself around a single, tiny truth.
She was pregnant.
He was going to be a father.
The guest list—still unfinished—lay somewhere in the flat, forgotten. The wedding was seven weeks away. Narcissa was going to lose her mind. The press would have a field day. Nothing was simple. Nothing was easy.
Harry didn't care.
He pulled back. Looked at her. Touched her stomach—flat, impossible, but something waited beneath his palm. Something that was already the most important thing in his life.
"I'm going to be a dad," he said. The words felt strange. Right. Like something he'd been waiting to say his whole life without knowing it.
Draco laughed. The sound was watery and desperate and beautiful.
"And I'm going to be a mum."
"You're going to be the best mum."
"I'm going to be a disaster."
"A beautiful disaster."
"You're biased."
"I'm in love. There's a difference."
She kissed him.
Then she pulled back and looked at him with that gleam in her eye—the one that ment she was already planning something.
"We need a healer," she said.
"Tomorrow."
"And we need to tell people."
"Eventually."
"And we need to—" She stopped. Blinked. "Oh God. We need to tell my mother."
Harry felt a grim smile cross his face.
"Let me," he said.
"Let you what?"
"Tell her."
Draco stared at him. Then she started to laugh—really laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and uncontrollable.
"You're going to tell Narcissa Malfoy that she's going to be a grandmother," she said.
"I am."
"You're going to enjoy it."
"I am."
"You're a terrible person."
"I'm the best person."
"You're going to give her a heart attack."
"Probably."
"You're going to stand there and watch."
"With pleasure."
She kissed him. Hard. Fierce. She was still laughing against his mouth, and he was laughing too, and the world outside kept spinning and the guest list kept lying on the floor and somewhere in the future a child with grey eyes and messy black hair was waiting to be born.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
The clock ticked. The tea went cold. And Harry stood in his kitchen with his future in his arms.
This—this was real.
And it was only the beginning.