HK13 of 25 files

Part the Thirteenth—
Hence vain deluding Joys, the brood of Folly without father bred!
—Milton, “Il Penseroso”

Justin couldn’t stop staring at Octavian as soon as he and Harry made it to the kitchen.  Octavian was flushed and smiling from the impromptu love making in the hall and very round with pregnancy.

“Harry, why didn’t you tell me?” he asked with awe in his voice.  “How is that—you’re not a hermaphrodite are you?  Are all wizards hermaphrodites?”  Horror crossed his face and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“There’s a potion,” he explained and Justin looked instantly relieved.

“Thank the Lord,” he murmured.  “That’s the sort of thing I’d have to tell a girl before I married her and I never want to have that kind of conversation.”

“Justin, tu es très bizarre,” Octavian informed him, lowering himself into a seat at the kitchen table.  “Où est Maman?”

Harry looked at the clock, his brow furrowing as he realized that not only were they just on time—but Lucrece was never late to a meal if she took it with them.  Justin was sitting happily in his seat, his eyes still following Octavian’s pregnant form, and Winky was just finishing dinner at the stove, her pillowcase starched.  Dobby must be somewhere else, Harry thought absently.

“Je ne sais pas.  Justin?”

Justin turned from his inspection of Octavian and turned to Harry.  “I have no idea.  She went out earlier but I assumed she would be back.  Wouldn’t she?”

Harry sighed.  If Justin hadn’t heard her come in and she was late then she probably wasn’t coming.  Sometimes he despised Lucrece for the small slights against Octavian.  She wouldn’t understand what a jewel she had for a son, a boy who worshipped and adored her.  Instead she would just accept it as her dues, perform some motherly duties without any affection, and then leave.  If it became too much, Harry would simply have to purchase a flat for her to stay in so that Octavian wasn’t constantly treated like this.  Or he would let Lucius do it.  He knew Octavian’s father would jump at the chance.

He could never understand living such a double life.  Lucius Malfoy was married to a woman he held great affection for, and then fell in love with another whom he was forced to rape and who despised him.  Harry wasn’t blind.  He saw the way Lucius looked at Octavian.  Draco was loved and wanted, the heir, but Octavian was the child of the woman he loved despite himself, the child of his heart.

He wondered if either Draco or Octavian were aware of this distinction—if Narcissa Malfoy or even Bellatrix Lestrange had observed this behavior and recognized the unhidden emotions in his eyes.  Lucius might not even be fully conscious of it himself, he realized.

The entire situation was a mess and if it hadn’t been for Severus Snape, the half-blood Prince—but he forced his mind to turn away from the thought, focusing instead on Octavian who had pressed his thigh against Harry, creating a heat between them that Harry realized he would have to satisfy as soon as they were done eating.  Octavian clearly took after his maternal grandmother in more than just her coloring.

“A letters for Master,” Winky said quietly, placing it beside his plate.  “It wases in post for over a month, but Winky coulds not check when in France.”

Harry looked at her in surprise and thanked her, forgetting the delicious beef stew that Winky had prepared as he stared at the envelope, swallowing when he recognized the handwriting.

The envelope was simple, a single stamp on it, addressed to “Harry James Potter, Hogwarts, Scotland.”  He wondered how it never made it to Hogwarts as he assumed that there were wizards watching the post.  Perhaps because he lived in a house under the Fidelius Charm, it could not be forwarded to the proper address and so had remained in the system until Winky had claimed it.  He wondered why Dobby had never fetched it, and supposed it must be because he wasn’t bound to the family and couldn’t perform certain duties—like picking up the post.

“’Oo is it from?” Octavian asked innocently, brushing his hand against Harry’s shoulder, his breath against his cheek. 

Harry absently wondered if the touches were innocent or Octavian had realized during his months in France how best to seduce him for when he arrived home.  He rather liked the change and wondered …

“Henri Jacques?”

“Pardon,” Harry apologized, looking up into Octavian’s black eyes, noting the mischievousness in them.  “It’s from Dudley—my Muggle cousin.”

“Mes dieux,” Octavian cursed under his breath, taking the missive from Harry’s lax fingers and setting aside.  “I will take care of it,” he promised.

Justin looked at them in surprise, perhaps not expecting the interaction.

Harry kissed Octavian’s temple tenderly.  “Merci, mon mari, but I think I should read it—he’s my cousin and I don’t want you to have to deal with it, especially considering everything else.”

Octavian glared at him.  “Are you saying zat I cannot perform my duties as your ‘usband?”

“No,” Harry urged.  “Absolutely the reverse.”  He leaned forward so that their foreheads touched, but Octavian moved angrily away. 

“Zat is what you are saying.  I may be with child, but I am still capable,” he huffed, and Harry wondered if it was the pregnancy hormones causing Octavian’s ire.

“Octavian,” Harry murmured.  “I would not read letters from your father or brother, even if I usually read the family post.  My cousin is also—well, he was raised to hate magic.  I am most likely insulted in that letter and I don’t want it to upset you.”

Octavian sighed and turned to his meal, sighing to himself.  “D’accord,” he agreed after a moment.  “I would rather throw it in ze fire, but it is yours.  Pardon, Henri.  Je m’inquiète que je ne puisse pas faire mon devoir. Je ne veux pas te décevoir.  Même dans le lit…”

“That is not a duty, but an expression of love,” Harry murmured adoringly, brushing Octavian’s hair behind his ear. 

“It is my duty,” Octavian countered.

Harry glanced at Justin who quickly picked up his bowl and a roll, exiting the room quietly.  Winky it appeared, after leaving several vitamins for Octavian to consume, had gone off somewhere, probably to clean.

“It is not a duty and I love tasting you, kissing you.  That is all I need,” he assured Octavian, brushing away the tears that were now falling down his beautiful face.

“Pardon,” Octavian murmured as he turned to Harry, who enveloped him in his arms. 

“It is my honor and privilege to love you,” Harry whispered in Octavian’s hair, holding him close.  “All I require are your kisses and that you let me hold you when you cry.”

Octavian nodded against Harry’s shoulder.  “Je voudrais la crème glacée à la citrouille. Et des cornichons.”

Harry laughed.  “I have no idea exactly what that is, but I’m certain Winky does.”  He clapped his hands together, never letting go of Octavian, and Winky appeared a moment later—and then went to get Octavian pumpkin ice cream and pickles, the most disgusting combination Harry could imagine. 

That night Harry held Octavian close, his husband’s head nestled beneath him as Octavian whimpered in pleasure.  He could feel their child between them, the sound of Octavian’s speeding heartbeat as he slowly stroked them off together, carefully and smoothly, a quiet expression of love perfect for Octavian who was tired from the day but still craving Harry’s touch.

Octavian nestled closer, his hand spasming against Harry’s upper arm as he clutched at him, soft sighs and tiny mewls escaping from his beautiful lips, his breath puffing against Harry’s chest.  “Henri Jacques,” he sighed out before gently cresting over the edge, Harry only a few soft strokes behind him.

Within minutes he was asleep in Harry’s arms, and Harry smiled as he grabbed his wand and carefully cleaned them off. 

“Je t’aime,” he murmured against Octavian’s golden head, and in his sleep Octavian mumbled back the same sentiment, snuggling even closer than he already was.

Harry was unable to read Dudley’s letter until the next day and was startled to see the contents—even just the opening which was unusually cordial.  He didn’t even know that Dudley could be polite in person, let alone on paper, where he wrote “Dear Harry” as if they had some form of connection other than one beating and mocking the other since they were children.

“Octavian,” Harry called as he left the library where he had been reading, knowing it would be empty as Daphne was home for Yule and Justin was currently calling Ivy—again.  “Octavian?”

“In ‘ere!” a lilting voice called and Harry smiled to himself, adoring the sound of his husband’s voice. 

“I read the letter—Dudley’s letter,” he began as he entered the drawing room, not looking up until he heard the rustle of brocade. 

Lucrece was lounging in her favorite arm chair near the fire, the embroidered baby blanket spread out on her lap as she showed it to Octavian, who was sipping honey flavored milk across from her, his feet up and being massaged by Winky.

“Why didn’t you tell me your feet hurt?” Harry asked kindly, forgetting the letter for a moment.  He came up to Octavian and sat down beside Winky.  “Let me,” he ordered, putting the letter aside and taking the cream Winky offered him.

“Henri Jacques,” Octavian whispered scandalized, looking at his mother.  “You are my ‘usband.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, briefly sniffing the cream and realizing that it smelled of vanilla and honey, “and as your husband, it is my honor and pleasure to care for all of your needs including this one when I am able.”

“Mais Winky—“ Octavian began to protest, but Harry kissed the arch of his foot lovingly.

“Humor me.  I’ve missed you so much, Octavian.  Let me do this for you.”

He saw Octavian looking warily at his mother and he turned to see the disapproving look in her black eyes.  He sighed and glared at her pointedly, glad when she turned back to the blanket.  He gently kissed Octavian’s foot again and then took a glob of cream into his hand and began to massage the right foot.

“Faire montre de manières si grossières!” she breathed in disapproval before standing up elegantly, her robes sweeping the floor as she left the room, calling Winky to her.

Harry sighed and kissed Octavian’s ankle when he saw the worried look in his eyes.  “Do not worry about Lucrece,” he assured him, “and I am a bit plebeian.”

“Je n’aime pas qu’elle dise ça,” Octavian admitted.  “She is angry zat Papa is out of Azkaban and zat we are friendly with ‘im.”

“I can understand that,” Harry said, attempting to be neutral.  He rubbed the balls of Octavian’s feet carefully and smirked when Octavian dropped his head back in pleasure. 

“Oui.  Comme cela,” he moaned and Harry continued dutifully rubbing Octavian’s foot before switching to the other one.

When he was finished, he carefully wiped off his hands and sat up, rubbing Octavian’s thighs gently and kissing his stomach through his house robe. 

“Tu peux lui parler, tu sais,” Octavian coaxed.  “Elle écoute.”

Harry smiled lovingly up at Octavian before turning back to his stomach.  “Hello, little girl,” he murmured.  “I’m your daddy and I love you so very, very much.”

Octavian tentatively reached out and brushed Harry’s long fringe out of his face, tracing the scar on his forehead lovingly.

“And I love your Papa,” Harry continued, his eyes meeting Octavian’s.  “He is the most beautiful wizard in all of Europe.”

Octavian laughed quietly to himself, merriment shining in his eyes.  “Je suis gros!”

“He may be slightly delusional at the moment,” Harry teased, “but I am told that is normal for those who are with child.  He is radiant and beautiful and charming, seducing me to the old ways, which you will know from the very moment you are born, my beautiful little pureblood.  Your Papa would stand for nothing less, you know.  He’s a bit elitist but we’ll love him anyway.”

“Henri,” Octavian sighed.  “You should not tease about such things.”

“Of course,” Harry responded apologetically.  “We’re waiting for you, Romola—and we both love you so much and we haven’t even met you, ma petite fille.”

“Notre petite fille,” Octavian corrected as he tugged on Harry’s collar and drew him up carefully, kissing Harry’s lips.  “Never send me away again,” he breathed.  “My ‘eart could not bear it, Henri Jacques.  It would break.”

“I know,” Harry whispered, tears in his eyes.  “I promise.  Never again.”

“I will follow you anywhere,” Octavian promised, tears streaming down his face, which Harry quickly kissed away.  “Anywhere mon Henri Jacques were to go.—Anywhere.”

“Don’t say such things,” Harry begged, kissing Octavian desperately.  “I could not live with myself if you were to—if I—“

“You are my ‘usband,” Octavian swore, grabbing Harry’s hand and clutching it to his heart.  “Mine.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, kissing Octavian sweetly.  “But if the worst were to happen to you—I would stay for Romola.  I would not want her condemned to the hell I grew up in.”

“She would not—“

“A childhood without a parent’s love,” Harry countered, looking desperately into Octavian’s eyes.  “Octavian, I know you—Please, swear to me that if you can help it, if something were to happen, you would make sure that nos petite fille never felt that pain.”

“Henri,” Octavian begged, leaning forward for another kiss, but Harry leaned away, his hands cupping Octavian’s face and holding it gently in place.

“Octavian Nür,” Harry pushed before giving in and kissing his husband desperately, careful not to crush him as he leaned over the armchair.  “Please,” he begged, whispering it against Octavian’s lips before plundering his mouth, tasting the sweet combination of milk and honey.  “Please, Octavian.”

“D’accord.  For you and only for you,” Octavian vowed.  “Je te veux.  Please.”  He pulled at Harry’s robe, opening them and splaying his smaller hand against Harry’s chest. 

Harry looked into Octavian’s eyes and saw the pure need in them, the unbridled lust.  Grabbing his wand from his pocket, he locked the room and put up a silencing spell so they wouldn’t be heard.  “Trust me,” he murmured as he carefully undid Octavian’s clothes, revealing his smooth skin and the swell of his stomach.

“Ne regarde pas!” Octavian demanded, desperation in his voice and Harry stilled.

“You are beautiful,” he assured Octavian, leaning forward to kiss him, but Octavian turned his head away.

“I am not.  You cannot want me, not like this.”

“I can and I do,” Harry assured him.  “It is our child that you carry—and you are mine.  You’re so sexy,” he murmured against Octavian’s neck, kissing him.  “Nothing is sexier than knowing I did that to you.”  He lowered his hands and splayed them on Octavian’s stomach, feeling their daughter.  “To know that I created this in you, that it was our desire for a child that took form—Octavian,” he murmured, lifting himself up so that he could kiss Octavian’s unyielding lips, tempting him to reciprocate.

When he didn’t, Harry sighed and leaned back, a glint in his eyes.  Carefully he began to undress, keeping his gaze firmly on Octavian’s eyes, watching as Octavian turned to him despite himself, his eyes widening as Harry stripped completely naked, his straining member clearly on display.

“Henri,” Octavian breathed, licking his lips, and Harry smiled fondly at his little husband. 

“Make love to me,” Harry whispered, watching the light through the window caress Octavian’s skin.  “I cannot make love to you—so make love to me.”

He stalked forward, picking up the vanilla and honey cream and dipping his fingers into it, watching Octavian’s eyes widen as he moved his hand to his own opening.

“Henri Jacques, you cannot—I am your—“

“Husband,” Harry answered for him, “as I am yours.”

He entered the first digit carefully and hissed at the new sensation.  It felt wrong, full, and yet all he could think of was his sweet Octavian, who needed to know that he was wanted in all ways even eight months into a pregnancy after months of separation.  He twisted his arm carefully, adding a second finger and carefully pumping, his face contorted at the strange and new sensations.

“Henri,” Octavian whispered, lust and uncertainty in his large black eyes.

“Sweetheart,” Harry murmured, straining his neck forward to kiss Octavian gently as he continued to pump himself, scissoring his fingers and gasping into the kiss.  “I am completely and totally yours.”

When he thought he was stretched enough, he removed his fingers and carefully dipped his hand into the cream again, mentally telling himself to buy a new jar for Octavian if he didn’t already have a stock.

“Let me make love to you in this way,” he breathed out, coating Octavian gently in the lotion.  Then he was lifting himself up, carefully positioning himself above his husband, mindful of his condition, and then he felt the strain pushing at his entrance, lowering himself carefully and for the first time understanding what it meant to be completed in this way.

“Je t’aime,” he promised as he moved slowly, watching the rapturous look on Octavian’s face as he lay back, his hands wrapping around Harry’s hips as Harry loved him.  “Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.”

Harry kissed Octavian slowly, focusing only on his husband’s pleasure, on his breathy gasps that made him harden even further, knowing that he could never have loved anyone as much as he adored his Octavian if things had been different—if he had never heard his name again at the beginning of sixth year, if he had never run into his compartment on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of Harry’s third year, if he had walked away when Harry accidentally made him think that he was only interested in a whore instead of a love that would define Harry so completely, that without Octavian he knew he would only be a shadow of his former self, trapped in memories of moments so perfect as this one when his heart was content despite the world that was crumbling outside of the walls of the Firefly Jar.

Then Octavian was breathing heavily and Harry felt it, the final joining, and he found himself wishing that he could carry Octavian’s child as Octavian was now carrying his, that he could bear a life and that Octavian would permit it although deep in his mind, Harry knew his husband would be upset, thinking he had failed as Harry’s husband if Harry would even suggest it.

A small hand wrapped around his member and began stroking gently and Harry leaned down across Octavian, kissing his upturned lips, seeing the sated pleasure and contented sleepiness in his eyes, and Harry felt his love overwhelm him so completely until he too fell over the edge, Octavian’s sweet name reverently falling from his lips. 

Octavian kissed Harry lazily, exploring his mouth with his sweeping tongue, tasting every corner as Harry came down from the pleasure, feeling entirely wanted and loved.  He pressed closer to Octavian, breathing in the musky scent of their love in a room warmed by a magical fire.  Splaying his hands across Octavian’s stomach, he felt their Romola stir, and pushed all of his love through that connection to both his husband and their first child.

When Octavian pulled away, Harry carefully lifted himself, feeling Octavian slip out of him and sighed in pleasure, grabbing his wand and conjuring a mattress and a few blankets on the floor.  “Come,” he murmured as he lay down, feeling a painful twinge in his spine.

Octavian grimaced as Harry’s face contorted at the feeling, and carefully pushed himself from the chair, his clothes open and in disarray, before lying down beside him. 

“Mon Henri Jacques,” he sighed as he snuggled closer, skin pressed against heated skin.  “Zat was—“

“Amazing?” Harry supplied hopefully, praying that he was able to give Octavian at least a fraction of the pleasure Octavian gave him.

“Stupéfiant,” Octavian agreed, pressing his nose against Harry’s chest and breathing deeply.  “Merci.”

“No, thank you,” Harry returned.  “I love you more than life itself.”

“Moi aussi.”  He grabbed Harry’s wrist and carefully placed it on his stomach where Romola was kicking gently.  “Elle dit ‘bonjour.’”

“Hello to you too,” Harry sighed happily.

“Zis means zat you must get me breakfast in bed,” Octavian laughed tiredly, referencing their honeymoon in Little Whinging of all places, where they had escaped the previous April. 

“I think that might be arranged.”  Harry grinned and deeply kissed Octavian, delighting in every gasp he could pull from his beautiful lips.  His love, his fiancé, his husband, the bearer of his child.  His everything.

Carefully he got up and put on his trousers, disregarding the rest of his clothes as he saw Octavian’s eyes hungrily follow his movements.  It seemed like there would soon be a repeat performance for his insatiable husband. 

“Dépêche-toi de revenir,” Octavian called as he opened the door.

“D’accord,” Harry agreed, blowing Octavian a kiss.

He quickly padded down to the kitchen, humming to himself, barely noticing the smirk Justin had on his face when he noticed Harry’s state of undress and slight limp from their lovemaking.  He opened the cupboard that served as a fridge, getting out the pumpkin ice cream Octavian adored and scooping it out and making a sundae with bananas, pickles, and chocolate bits.  He found a bag of blood pops that he had noticed Octavian eating earlier and added them, then mixing together warm milk and honey.  He finally grabbed a few cinnamon buns and a Butterbeer for himself, knowing that somehow Octavian would appropriate them if his cravings turned in that direction, but grinning just at the thought.

“Octavian,” he called in warning as he opened the door, turning and seeing him sitting up in bed, the letter held in his hand.

He looked up at Harry, his face drawn and stern and tossed the letter aside.  “I remembered zat you came to tell me about it.”  His black eyes shone dangerously. 

“Y-yes,” Harry stuttered, confused at how quickly Octavian’s mood had changed.  Carefully he stepped forward, setting the tray on the floor and coming to sit next to Octavian, who shifted away from him.  “Octavian,” Harry sighed, but Octavian didn’t move any closer.

“You will say ‘Non,’” he demanded angrily.  “Tell me zat is what you planned on telling ‘im and it was only a courtesy—courtesy?”

Harry nodded glumly.

“A courtesy zat you would tell me of ‘is insulting request.”

“It’s not insulting,” Harry countered, remembering the letter.  Dudley claimed that the Order had come to his house—or at least what sounded like the Order—and had offered the Dursleys protection if they consented to go into hiding once Harry didn’t return for the summer.  Uncle Vernon had refused angrily, calling everyone freaks and demanding that they leave their home and never return, which they did.  Dudley had gone to Smeltings thinking that the matter was over until the beginning of November when he was told that his house was attacked and his parents murdered, a strange glowing cloud of green hovering above number four, Privet Drive.  He was afraid to return, even to Piers Polkiss’s home, and begged for the protection his family refused.

Octavian scoffed.  “After what zey did to you.  Of course it is insulting.”

Harry breathed deeply, trying to calm himself.  “He is my cousin.”

“Mes dieux, you cannot be serious!  I will not ‘ave a Muggle in zis ‘ouse, Henri Jacques, near Maman, near Romola.  Il est ignoble.  Je me souviens de son père.”  He was now quaking in anger and Harry reached out to comfort him, only to have Octavian shy away again.  “Promise me,” Octavian seethed, his eyes flashing blacker than usual if that were even possible.  “Swear.”

Harry held his gaze and then shook his head.  “He’s my cousin.  I cannot just leave him, Octavian.”

Octavian growled angrily, throwing off the covers and buttoning up his clothes precariously, teetering to his feet.  Harry reached out to help him, but Octavian slapped his hand away angrily, steadying himself instead by grasping an armchair.

“Octavian,” Harry begged as his husband threw open the door far quicker than Harry thought he could move given that he was eight months pregnant.  “Let’s talk about this rationally.”

“Do not patrionize moi,” he shouted, his voice echoing across the hall.  “Il est un Moldu—un meutrier.”

“He’s not a—“

“Zey all are!” Octavian shouted, his lips quaking.  “Every one would throw stones, would beat you.  ‘Ow can I forget zis ‘Arry ‘Unting as you call it, Henri Jacques.  ‘Ow?”

Harry could see the fear surrounding Octavian and remembered, remembered all the scars that littered Octavian’s beautiful body.  The Muggles in France tried to stone him, thinking he was a changeling, and looking at his husband, Harry could see the frightened boy who had been stoned and managed to survive because of accidental magic.

“It’s in the past,” Harry tried, his voice cracking, and Octavian backed up several more steps as Harry reached for him. 

“If you bring ‘im ‘ere, zen I will leave.  I will not stay under ze same roof.  Romola will not be near ce monstre.  ‘E will try to kill Romola.”

“You cannot—Octavian—“ Harry begged, but Octavian was walking away from him, not looking back.  Harry stood helplessly, watching Octavian’s shaking form, knowing that he was crying but that he would not permit Harry to comfort him.  “Octavian,” he whispered desperately, tears falling from his eyes and wishing he had left the letter elsewhere, that he were feeding his husband pickles and ice cream with his fingers, kissing his salty-sweet-honey-milk lips and not sitting on the stairs alone.

Then he heard it, the sob that meant that Octavian was breaking down completely before the cry of pain.  He jumped to his feet, rushing down the stairs, only to find Octavian leaning heavily against the wall, his hands cradling his stomach protectively.  “Le bébé,” he gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks—and then Harry saw the blood running between his legs, his heart going cold.

French to English.

Justin, tu es très bizarre.  Justin, you are very strange.

Où est Maman? Where is Mother?

Je ne sais pas.  I don’t know.

 Je m’inquiète que je ne puisse pas faire mon devoir. Je ne veux pas te décevoir.  Même dans le lit… I am worried that I cannot perform my duties.  I do not want to disappoint you.  Even in bed …

Je voudrais la crème glacée à la citrouille. Et des cornichons. I would like pumpkin ice cream.  And pickles with vinegar.

Faire montre de manières si grossières! Such a display of plebian manners!

Je n’aime pas qu’elle dise ça.  I don’t like it that she says so.

Oui.  Comme cela.  Yes.  Like that.

Tu peux lui parler, tu sais.  Elle écoute.  You can talk to her, you know.  She listens.

Je suis gros!  I am fat!

Ma petite fille.  My little girl.

Notre petite fille.  Our little girl.

Je te veux.  I want you.

Ne regarde pas!  Don’t look!

Stupéfiant.  Astounding.

Elle dit ‘bonjour.’ She says ‘hello.’

Dépêche-toi de revenir. Hurry back.

Il est ignoble.  Je me souviens de son père. It is wretched.  I remember his father.

Il est un Moldu—un meutrier. He is a Muggle—a murderer.

Ce monstre.  That monster.