1 - 20 of 53 Works by LexiCane
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"How long?" Ginny asked quietly.
"Two months," Harry said. "You?"
"Six weeks."
Draco laughed—actually laughed, the sound bright and genuinely amused. "Oh, this is delicious. You've both been sneaking around, fucking me behind each other's backs, and neither of you noticed. That's either incredibly sad or incredibly funny. I'm going with funny."
"This isn't funny," Ginny snapped.
"It absolutely is." Draco settled onto the sofa, looking utterly unrepentant. "You're both cheating on each other with the same person. That's objectively hilarious."
"Did you know?" Harry asked. "That we were married to each other?"
"Of course I knew. I'm not an idiot." Draco shrugged. "But it's not my job to manage your marriage. You're both adults. You both made your choices."
"You could have told us," Ginny said.
"Why? You were both clearly miserable in your marriage. I was providing a service—excellent sex with no strings attached. What you did with that information was your business." Draco's expression was utterly unapologetic.
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Draco raised Scorpius with help from Lucius and Narcissa, who were surprisingly devoted grandparents. Good parents, from what Harry had observed. They loved their son, loved their grandson.
They'd want what was best for Draco. Stability. Security. Someone who would cherish him.
Harry would give them that. He'd give them a son-in-law who would worship Draco like a god, who would kill for him, who would never, ever stray because there was no one else in the entire fucking world worth looking at.
The trick was making Draco agree to marriage. Making him think it was his choice.
Harry had been planning this for months. He'd positioned himself carefully—becoming friendly with Lucius through Ministry connections, earning Narcissa's approval by being unfailingly polite and respectful. He'd even won over little Scorpius by helping him with a school project on famous Aurors. The Malfoys liked him. Trusted him.
Draco was the final piece.
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The Fiendfyre had burned itself out, leaving behind a wasteland of ash and twisted metal. The mountains of objects were gone, reduced to grey powder that covered every surface. The air still shimmered with residual heat.
And in the center of it all, something moved.
Harry was on his feet before he consciously decided to move. He pushed past the students, ignoring their protests, and stepped into the room.
The ash was warm beneath his feet, still-glowing embers scattered like dying stars across the floor. Harry's eyes tracked the movement he'd seen, his heart hammering against his ribs.
There.
A figure was rising from a pile of ash near what had once been the center of the room. Pale skin emerged first, then a fall of platinum blonde hair, then—
"Draco," Harry whispered.
Draco Malfoy stood in the ruins of the Room of Requirement, completely naked and covered in ash, looking around with an expression of utter bewilderment.
He was alive.
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"Does everyone know? Does the entire wizarding world know that you two can't keep your hands off each other for five minutes?"
"Probably," Harry said cheerfully.
"And you don't care?"
"Why would we?" Draco asked, genuinely puzzled. "We're married. We love each other. We enjoy sex. What's there to be ashamed of?"
"The fact that you do it everywhere!" Ron exploded. "In offices! In alleys! In restaurants! In hotel hallways! In bookshops! Is nowhere sacred?"
Harry and Draco looked at each other, then back at Ron.
"No," they said in unison.
Ron threw his hands up. "I give up. I officially give up. You two are insane, and I'm just going to have to accept that I'm going to keep walking in on you for the rest of my life."
"That's the spirit," Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder.
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The alternative had been unthinkable. To be bound to another person so completely that their absence could kill him, as it had killed his mother—no. That was not living. That was a prison sentence dressed up in the language of destiny and soulmates.
Draco had watched Narcissa fade over the course of eighteen months, her beauty withering like a flower denied sunlight. The Veela bond was absolute; separated from Lucius, she had simply... diminished.
Lucius had been released two weeks after her funeral. The guilt had broken something in him that Azkaban never had.
Draco would not repeat that mistake. He would not give anyone that power over him, would not make himself vulnerable to the whims of fate or the choices of another person. The Severance Draught had been his salvation, his declaration of independence.
That was the price of freedom, and he paid it gladly.
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The ritual had worked.
The realization settled over him like a cloak, heavy and absolute. The Malfoy family's most desperate gambit, a piece of blood magic so ancient and dangerous that it had been locked away for centuries, reserved only for moments of existential threat. The ingredients alone had taken his parents months to acquire—phoenix tears willingly given, the heart of a star captured in crystal, blood from each participant mixed with powdered bone of their ancestors, and a dozen other components so rare that most wizards believed them mythological.
The ritual promised knowledge. The memories of a hundred lives, carefully selected by the magic itself to provide what the caster needed most. But it came with risks that would have made lesser families balk: madness, death, or something worse—the complete dissolution of self, leaving only a hollow shell animated by the memories of the dead.
Draco had survived.
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"She's my friend, Draco. I'm not going to cut her out of my life just because we used to date. That's not how healthy relationships work."
Draco had dropped it. Had smiled and agreed and pretended it was fine.
But it wasn't fine.
Every time Harry met Ginny for drinks, every time she texted him, every time Harry smiled at his phone because of her, Draco felt something dark and poisonous unfurl in his chest. Jealousy, yes. But more than that—rage. Humiliation. The feeling that he was being forced to compete for his own boyfriend's attention.
He was Draco Malfoy. He didn't compete. He didn't share.
And he certainly didn't tolerate threats.
Draco had tried to be reasonable. Had tried to communicate, to explain his discomfort. But Harry had dismissed his concerns, had made Draco feel like he was being possessive and irrational. So Draco had stopped talking about it.
But he hadn't stopped thinking about it.
He hadn't stopped planning.
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"Ginny's not blameless here, mate. What she did—getting you drunk, seducing you when you were vulnerable—that's fucked up. That's predatory."
"She knew exactly what she was doing," Hermione added, her voice sharp with anger. "She's been waiting for an opportunity like this. Waiting for a moment when you were weak and Draco wasn't there to protect you."
"He tried to protect me," Harry whispered. "He warned me so many times. And I didn't listen."
"No, you didn't." Hermione's voice was gentle but firm. "And now you have to live with the consequences. But Harry, you also need to understand that what Ginny did was wrong. You were drunk. You were vulnerable. She took advantage of that."
"I still did it. I still cheated."
"Yes, you did. And that's on you. But Ginny manipulated the situation to make it happen. She's not innocent in this."
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"Malfoy's shagging his way through wizarding Britain. What's new?"
But Harry saw what Ron didn't—the emptiness in Draco's grey eyes, the way his smile never quite reached them. The way he held himself like something precious that had been broken and badly mended.
"I heard he's doing groundbreaking work in experimental potions," Hermione continued. "Completely revolutionizing healing draughts. The Practical Potioneer called him a once-in-a-generation genius."
"Shame he's wasting his brain cells on orgies," Ron muttered.
Harry folded the paper, but Draco's face stayed with him. It always did.
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"I want a family, Gin." Harry ran his hand through his perpetually messy black hair. "I've always wanted that. A real family, young enough to enjoy it. To build something that's mine—ours. But you want to focus on your Quidditch career, and that's okay. That's good, even. You should chase your dreams."
"But not with you, apparently." Ginny's brown eyes flashed. "So what, you're just going to find some witch who'll pop out babies for the great Harry Potter?"
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"Harry, your husband just stormed out of here looking like he wanted to hex your bollocks off. And he mentioned your... er... prick. So I'm guessing this is about something that happened in the bedroom?"
Harry's face flushed scarlet. "Ron—"
"I'm just saying, mate. Draco doesn't get that angry unless it's serious. Remember when you accidentally donated that Ming vase to the Weasleys' charity auction? He didn't speak to you for a week."
"This is worse than the vase," Harry muttered, sinking onto the sofa beside Ron. He ran his hands through his perpetually messy black hair. "He's... Ron, he's pregnant."
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Draco crossed the room but didn't sit down. Instead, he stood by the fireplace, his back to Harry for a moment before turning to face him. "How much longer are you planning to romance me before you actually fuck me?"
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"I'm done, Ginny. I'm done being your meal ticket. I'm done watching you waste your life on the sofa whilst I work myself into the ground. I'm just... done."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Are you..." Ginny's voice was small, disbelieving. "Are you breaking up with me?"
"Yes."
"Because of money? Harry, you're loaded—"
"I'm not, actually. Not anymore. Another year of this and I'll be scraping by." He met her eyes, saw the shock there, the anger building beneath it. "But it's not just the money. It's the principle. You're capable, Ginny. You're smart and talented. But you won't even try to do anything else. You just... expect me to take care of you forever."
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Hermione laid the documents on his desk. "Harry, I need you to read these. All of them. And I need you to stay calm until you've finished."
Harry read in silence. Hermione watched his face go from confused to shocked to devastated to absolutely murderous. When he finally looked up, his eyes were blazing with a fury she'd never seen before.
"I had a child," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "I had a child with Draco, and Ginny—Ginny killed it."
"She intercepted his letter," Hermione confirmed. "She forged a response. Draco thought you rejected him, that you didn't want the baby. He had an abortion because he was dying, Harry. Without your energy, the pregnancy was killing him."
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"I've been thinking a lot lately about our relationship. About how we got here." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "And I've realized something that I should have realized a long time ago. I've been a terrible boyfriend to you."
"Harry—"
"No, let me finish. Please." He waited until she nodded. "You've been chasing me since you were eleven years old. And when we finally got together after the war, I just... I let you do all the work. I never had to try because you were always there, always forgiving, always available. And I took advantage of that. I took advantage of you."
Ginny's expression was carefully neutral. "Where is this coming from?"
"I realized this week that we haven't spoken in six days. And I didn't even notice. I didn't miss you, Ginny. I didn't wonder what you were doing or wish you were there. And that's not... that's not what love is supposed to be."
"So you're breaking up with me." Her voice was steady, but her hands were clenched on the table.
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"What do you mean, take care of you?" Harry had asked carefully. They were sitting in a corner booth at the Leaky Cauldron, two weeks into what he'd thought was a promising relationship.
Ginny had laughed, that tinkling sound that had once charmed him. "Oh, Harry, don't be dense. I mean provide for me. You're Harry Potter—you've got more gold than you know what to do with. I shouldn't have to work some boring job when I could be enjoying life. That's what partners do, isn't it? Take care of each other?"
"By 'each other,' you mean I work and you... what? Shop?"
Her expression had turned petulant, a look he was beginning to recognize. "Don't make it sound so shallow. I'm the only girl, the baby of the family—everyone's always taken care of me. That's just how it is. And you're supposed to want to take care of me too."
Harry had felt something cold settle in his chest. "Ginny, I don't want to be anyone's wallet. I want a partner. An equal. Someone who has their own life, their own goals."
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The tent's protective enchantments hummed softly as Harry laid Draco Malfoy's unconscious form onto the conjured bed—the nicest one, with silk sheets he'd transfigured specifically for this moment. His hands trembled as he smoothed back platinum hair from Draco's pale forehead, fingers lingering perhaps a moment too long.
"Harry." Hermione's voice was sharp, cutting through his reverie. "What have you done?"
He turned to face his best friends, both staring at him with expressions caught between horror and disbelief. Ron's ears had gone red, always a sign of extreme emotion, while Hermione clutched her beaded bag like a lifeline.
"I saved him," Harry said simply, turning back to adjust Draco's collar, to make sure he looked comfortable. Perfect. "Voldemort wants him. Wants to mark him, make him a Death Eater like his father was supposed to be. I couldn't—I won't let that happen."
"So you kidnapped him?" Ron's voice cracked on the last word. "Mate, that's—that's actually mental. Even for you."
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"We need to talk," he said, and watched her face change, watched her understand.
Some part of him—a distant, clinical part—noted that he should feel guilty about this. About the way he was doing this, about the three years he'd wasted of her life, about the fact that he was ending their relationship with all the emotion of filing paperwork at the Ministry.
But he didn't feel guilty. He felt free.
"All right," Ginny said quietly, and Harry was grateful she wasn't going to make this difficult.
"This isn't working," he said, keeping his voice neutral, matter-of-fact. "Us. It hasn't been working for a while."
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Ginny's breath caught. "You're married?"
Harry's hand stilled for just a moment before he continued writing. "Yes."
"I didn't know. I mean, no one talks about—who's the lucky witch?"
"I prefer to keep my private life private," Harry said, his tone brooking no argument. He set down his quill and finally looked at her directly. "Was there something else you needed, Ginny?"
The dismissal was clear. Ginny felt heat rise to her cheeks—part embarrassment, part frustration. "No. I suppose not."
As she left his office, she couldn't shake the image of that ring. Harry was married. But to whom? And why had no one told her? Surely Ron knew. Surely Hermione knew.
The thought that her own brother might have kept this from her made her stomach twist with something ugly and hot.
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He told himself it was about being financially responsible. He told Ginny the same thing. But late at night, lying beside her in their modest flat, Harry knew the truth: he was hoarding his money like a dragon hoarded gold, because spending it on Ginny felt like cementing a future he didn't want. Every galleon saved was a galleon that didn't bind him tighter to this life he'd never chosen.