@somuchanxietysolittletime, I’m assuming your blessing to actually put it into fic format; my apologies if I misread you..
Harry resists the urge to slap his face down into his hands, and also resists the urge to go over there in Auror mode and interrupt. Behind him, Ron murmurs an audible “Aww, shit!” that has the assembled kids giggling and Hermione hissing, “Ron, don’t!” at him. To his side, Ginny is joining in the giggles, though hers are muffled.
In front of them, the Malfoys, and the entire crowd of kids and parents at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy are rolling around on the dusty platform like a pair of teenagers, trading punches, elbows, and gasping, interrupted insults. Lucius is smacking Arthur about the head and shoulders with a formerly-pristine copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One which presumably belongs to his grandson, and Arthur has one hand fisted in Lucius’ white-blond hair, rubbing his head in the dust.
They’re putting up quite a fight for a pair of grandfathers.
Across from Harry, Draco Malfoy meets his gaze and gives him a wry look that is half commiseration, half amusement. His eldest, fourth-year Salazar Abraxas, is outright grinning at the sight; middle child Cassiopeia Selene is bouncing up and down behind her mother, Astoria, who looks the way Harry feels; Scorpius, the youngest, off to his first year at Hogwarts, is looking from his parents to his grandfather as if uncertain whether to frown or cheer. Narcissa, icy-proper as ever, is watching the whole affair with the expression of a hawk, missing nothing, revealing nothing.
It takes what feels like a long time for the fight to end, but it’s probably about the normal amount of time for these fights. Released from Azkaban in exchange for a public condemnation of blood-purist beliefs, Lucius seems to have settled on a personal rivalry with Arthur Weasley as the acceptable outlet for his bottled-up principles, and Arthur … well. Lucius once almost got his daughter killed. The result is that neither of them can so much as pass each other in Diagon Alley without attempting to thump the daylights out of each other, with or without magic. Narcissa and Molly have taken to dropping notes to each other warning of their husbands’ planned presence in the other’s sphere, after their first fight in Molly’s presence had resulted in her breaking them up with great force, and Narcissa had reacted to Molly manhandling her husband by raising a wand in his defense.
(Molly had spent the remainder of the day hiccuping butterflies and Narcissa’s hair had been singing Celestina Warbeck Christmas carols until the following Tuesday, and they’ve reacted to each other like wary tomcats pretending ignorance of each other’s existence ever since, aside from the occasional owl with “Lucius will be in the Ministry Wednesday” and “Arthur will attend Minister’s Yule Ball this year” attached.)
Harry is unsure whether to be upset or relieved that Molly had a bad cold this morning and hates to go out emitting steam from a Pepper-Up potion.
Draco appears to come to a decision, and strides around the tangled, panting pair to come up to Harry. “Morning, Potter. Lovely weather we’ve been having, huh?” he drawls in a carrying voice, drawing attention to the fact that he’s blatantly ignoring his father’s scuffle.
“Sure is, Malfoy. Rain, rain, more rain, and for a bit of a change-up, rain. Or does your manner have its own ray of sunshine coming out your father’s arse?” His tone is gentle, teasing, ever-so-slightly wary of it being too much, with said father being actively making an ass of himself in the background.
“No, it’s just as rainy. Even the peacocks are muddy.” He smiles, nods to Ginny, to Ron, to Hermione; all three nod back, a bit shortly on Ron’s part. “Potters. Granger-Weasels,” Draco says, quieter now, “Any bets on the Sorting?”
His tone is light, but Harry, Auror that he is, can hear the underlying strain. “You’re worried about Scorpius?” he asks, in a voice that won’t carry.
Draco frowns slightly; for a moment he looks very like his father did the first time Harry saw Lucius, his blonde hair grown out and cascading over his shoulders of a too-tailored robe. “I’ll manage. I’ll handle Father. Scorp is worried he’ll be a Gryffindor.”
Harry nods to his own youngest. “Albus Severus is worried he’ll be a Slytherin.”
Draco looks over at him thoughtfully. “How are we this bad at being parents?”
“Huh?” Harry can’t follow that one.
“Potter. Harry.” Draco scrubs his hand through his hair. “I wanted my kids to not be afraid of anything. To not have … what we went through. Or anything like it. And here they are, worrying about being in the wrong house and what it’ll mean for them, like the old rivalries are still there.” He looks over at Lucius and Arthur, who are picking themselves up gingerly and pretending nothing happened.
“My parents are laughing at me for this in the afterlife,” says Harry, “and so is Professor Snape.” He runs his hands through his own hair, leaving it only slightly more of a disaster than the one it always is. “All those times I went off to fight my own battles … they’re gonna be laughing their asses off at me for having to let my son go to fight his own.”
“Severus Snape laughing. That’d be great,” says Draco. “I never saw that, not once. Be nice if he could laugh.” He narrows his eyes. “I still haven’t forgiven you for stealing that name, though.”
Harry grins. “Not my fault my kid was born two weeks before yours.” He shakes his head. “But seriously. They’ll have their fears, and maybe they’ll have to face them, but they’ll live, and we can be there to support them. I grew up without parents, Draco, and y’know? Having one of them there to tell me it would be okay would’ve meant so much to me … and I never had that, but I get to give my kid that … and you get to give your kid that. It’s … don’t discount that.”
Draco looks thoughtful, but as if some bit of tension in him has been lessened.
“Anyway,” says Harry. “Bets: Albus and Scorpius both go into Slytherin and become unholy terrors, losing Slytherin enough points to match all the points James has lost for Gryffindor.” Draco quirks a smile. “Fabian and Gemini” he points over to where George and Cho are appearing through the entrance with their son and daughter, “will be Ravenclaws; Rose will be a Hufflepuff. Five galleons per kid.”
“Deal,” says Draco, and Ron interrupts. “Five on Fab and Gem to be a Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw split, and,” he draws a deep breath, “Five on Rose for Slytherin.”
Draco raises an eyebrow at Ron. “Sure you can afford that one, Ronald? I’m not taking your last galleons or anything?” He’s grinning as he says it, but not maliciously; Ron, having started a muggle-style strategy consulting firm for everything from party planning to ending blood feuds, makes more than Harry does right now, and just beams at Malfoy and says, “Ten galleons.”
Harry notices Rose, fiddling with her trunk behind them, perk up a bit.
“Whatever Houses they’re in,” he says, loudly enough for all of them to hear, even Lucius and Arthur, who have retreated to their respective family groups to dust themselves off, “They’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
