Part the Tenth—
“Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.”
—Lord Byron
Caspar Summers was the first to arrive. He was sporting bright blue hair that was cropped to his ears in the Roman style and bright yellow eyes. He was rather eccentric in his facial features.
He was standing by the table, which held a pomegranate and athame. “By the old gods, Octavian, who’s getting married?”
He was dressed in dark purple robes stitched with white. He made quite the distinguished figure.
Octavian came up beside him, wearing his own golden set of robes that highlighted his hair. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” he argued. “I’ve known you since we were four years old, Octavian. I know your parents are already married and you’re the one who invited me, but none of it makes sense! You can’t possibly be getting married?”
“Can’t I?” Octavian argued.
“First, you’re dating Potter,” Caspar began.
“Who’s an orphan.”
Caspar paused. “All right, he can get married. It’s the same school year as he ‘technically’ turns seventeen. Weird, archaic law, that. It just automatically assumes that you’re born before summer holidays.”
Octavian lifted himself onto a high ledge. They were in the gardens, his parents at the floo to direct guests to the correct place. “Yes, keep going with it.”
“If you were illegitimate you could be married, but you’re clearly not.”
“No, I’m not,” Octavian agreed.
“The only other option is you’re—“ His eyes widened and he looked down at Octavian’s midsection. “Octavian, what have you done?”
“Thwarted the rules a bit,” he admitted. “Now you see why we must get married?”
“Y-yes,” Caspar said, his eyes straying to the table again. “I just—wow. Octavian, just wow.”
“Wow, what?” Jamie Urquhart asked, coming up. “Is that a bonding table?”
“Yes,” Octavian answered. “It is.”
“Wonderful. I love weddings,” he answered. “I cried at my sister’s.”
“Are you sure you wanted to admit that?” Octavian asked cheekily. “Anyway, I hope you brought a handkerchief in case you’re moved to tears this morning. Otherwise I can have a house elf fetch one.”
“Brought one,” was the answer. He pulled it from his sleeve. “I never go unprepared anymore.”
Octavian laughed happily. “Well, we’ll do our best to bring you to tears, then. We wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”
“What’s that?” the new voice of Hermione Granger asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” She was looking at the bonding table and was rushing up to it. She was just about to touch the pomegranate, when Flo reached for her hand and tugged it away.
“That’s sacred, Hermione,” she explained. “You can’t touch.”
“It’s a pomegranate,” she stated, bewildered.
“It’s for a bonding,” Ron put in. “Gosh, I’ve never been to a bonding. They’re so rare.”
“Not among purebloods,” Caspar put in. “My aunt was bonded just five years ago. Or was it six? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Who’s the bride?” His eyes lit on Harry’s left hand. “Harry Potter!” He grasped Harry’s hand. “Caspar Summers, fourth year Hufflepuff. Felicitations.”
Harry looked as if he’d been caught in headlights. “Er-thank you,” he managed. “Are you a friend of Octavian’s?”
“From childhood,” Caspar explained, “and this is Jamie Urquhart. You might know his brother. Plays Quidditch for Slytherin.”
Harry was now shaking Jamie’s hand. “Er—no, sorry. Nice to meet you.” He paused. “This is Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, my guests for today.”
Ron shook hands with both Caspar and Jamie but Hermione just looked bewildered. “Bride?” she finally gulped.
Sirius came up then. “Harry here,” he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Is getting hitched.”
“To Prince?” she asked, still quite shocked. “Aren’t they a bit young?” She glanced between them. “And I thought the whole courtship thing was a farce because they’re both male?”
“Really, did you have to bring this demmed ignorant witch along?” Troy Prince said, entering the room. He looked over at Octavian fondly.
“She’s my best friend, sir.”
He harrumphed. “Well, better be getting on with it. Everyone’s here.”
Hermione made to say something, but Flo just whispered at her, “Later.”
Octavian drew Harry to the table and they stood among lavender, their scent filling the air. Picking up the athame, Octavian slit the palm of his hand diagonally. He looked encouragingly at Harry and handed him the utensil. Harry did the same. Then, reaching forward, Octavian clasped their hands together. They both gasped as they could feel their magic mingle.
Next, Octavian took the athame and cut the pomegranate. “This is where I feed you,” he informed Harry, holding out the piece of fruit. Harry looked at him skeptically but ate the fruit from midair and then repeated the same gesture with Octavian. They smiled at each other.
All the time, Florence was taking pictures.
Finally, Octavian picked up a jewelry box, which housed two gold rings. He picked one up and slipped it on Harry’s left ring finger. “A Muggle tradition,” he whispered. Harry smiled at him. As Harry slipped the ring on his hand, Octavian laughed and leaned up to kiss Harry, careful not to get blood on his neck or his robes.
Loud clapping drew them apart, and they smiled bashfully at the onlookers. They were married.
Of course, Hermione had to be difficult. When they went to have a group photograph taken she refused to be in it and instead stood to the side while a house elf took the picture. She didn’t even stay for the cutting of the cake, which Octavian noted balefully.
When all their guests were gone, Octavian and Harry sat on a plush sofa overlooking the gardens.
“What are you thinking, Mr. Prince?” Octavian asked cheekily, and Harry looked over. The lullaby wrapped around them and it made them both smile. It seemed to hum in completion, like its task was almost done.
“Like my entire life just changed.”
“Would you like to see Prince’s Pride? Our new home?”
“We won’t be living here?” Harry asked in confusion. He had clearly forgotten Octavian mentioning it the day before.
“No, we have our own property,” Octavian answered. “Mother and Father will come and pick us up around ten tomorrow morning.”
“All right then,” Harry said, leaning forward and kissing Octavian lightly. “I get to kiss you now whenever I want.”
“Yes, you do,” Octavian agreed. “Mother and Father are writing to Dumbledore right now about having a separate room. I asked for Gryffindor, I hope you don’t mind.”
“I thought you liked Slytherin?” Harry asked in confusion.
“Not after this summer,” Octavian answered darkly. “I will have to seek out Draco on the train, there’s no helping it, but I can avoid the common room and any mention of him.” His face darkened but then lightened a moment later. “Come, mon mari, I wish to see our new home!”
Prince’s Pride was somewhere in Wales. It was on top of a hill and was rectangular, with a hallway that skirted an inner living room, with all other rooms going off of it. The Master Bedroom looked out into the valley and there were jars of fireflies on the bookshelves and windowsills.
Harry had expected Octavian to just want to be held that night, but instead, Octavian slowly stripped him from his robes. “I’m afraid,” he began, “that if I make love to you, that I’ll be thinking of Lavinia and we will have another child on the way.—Do not think I did not notice that potions bottle by your bed, Henri Jacques.”
“I think if we think specifically of Lavinia, then nothing will happen,” Harry reasoned. “She is already in existence.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Harry said decidedly.
They made love that night, sweet and slow, with Octavian laving attention on Harry’s body beneath him and Harry sighing into the night. When they finally joined, Harry’s body arched upward and Octavian’s hand came around his member, pumping it as he thrust in and out of Harry until finally Harry lost himself, Octavian just a few minutes behind. They lay in a tangle of limbs and Octavian kissed Harry’s shoulder lightly.
“Up for round two?” he asked cheekily and Harry just held him close and kissed him, their laughter filling the room.
The Dark Lord was alone. He had sent all of his followers away. Sitting in the room where Octavian had done the reading on the Elder Wand, he held the Evening Edition of the Daily Prophet. On the cover was a large moving color photograph of Octavian and Harry Prince cutting a piece of wedding cake, the light glittering off their wedding bands.
What a terribly Muggle tradition. Probably done for Potter’s benefit.
Still, it made him angry. He knew how this wedding could take place. First, one of them had to be an orphan—and there had to be a pregnancy. Everyone would assume, at first, that it would be Potter. Prince. Whatever. Octavian was the son of a Lord and would obviously dominate him even if he were a celebrity. However, Voldemort knew the truth. He remembered the sound of Octavian’s cries as he came beneath him, of the thought of children he put in his fevered mind. It was all Voldemort could think about as he pounded Octavian into the mattress. A child, theirs. Something to connect them. Something Octavian and his precious Potter would not have together.
Now he need only find Lucius to discover what he knew about this dreadful farce.
And it was a farce. A horrible one. Potter had outwitted him again. He had claimed Voldemort’s child as his own. The child would probably never be raised with the Dark Arts, as he should be, and would have a filthy half-blood as a father.
It didn’t deem thinking about that Voldemort’s own father had been a Muggle. He had done everything to purge that disgusting vermin from him. He had changed his manners, his poise, his face to the point where he looked like a snake. He had done everything to eradicate that man!
Now his own child was being taken away from him, but he wouldn’t have that. He thought briefly. He had eight months, eight months to make Octavian Prince his and get Potter fully out of the picture.
He stood up and called for Lucius Malfoy.
McGonagall was sitting across from him, stirring her cup of tea. She was clearly displeased. “Mr. Prince,” she said. It still sounded so strange. “I don’t doubt that your husband is having a similar conversation with his Head of House at this moment.”
Harry and Octavian had barely been at Hogwarts for half an hour when they were called into separate meetings. McGonagall had sorted the first years and then had come and fetched him from where he was sitting with Ron and Hermione. Hermione was giving him the silent treatment, she had been ever since the wedding, but he was just letting it roll off his back like water. He knew she didn’t like Octavian. Hell, Ron didn’t like Octavian, but he’d been able to see past it for the sake of the wedding.
Anyway, now here he was eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking tea, instead of enjoying the feast. He wondered what Dumbledore had to say this year. He supposed he’d find out from Ron.
“All of the professors have naturally been informed of your new moniker,” she stated imperiously. “Some of us, of course, are disheartened to see you give up your father’s name, especially at such a young age, but I suppose it could not be helped, you being married to a future Lord.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder what James and Lily would think.”
“I’d like to think that they’d be happy for me,” Harry stated boldly. “They were, after all, my parents. They would want me to be happy.”
“Yes.” She didn’t sound at all convinced. “I am not at all ignorant for the reason why this marriage could take place, Mr. Pot—Prince. Madam Pomfrey is, naturally, at your disposal. You may also come to me if you have any difficulties regarding balancing your schoolwork and your condition.”
Harry paused. However, he was certain that McGonagall could keep a secret. “I’m not the one who’s in need of care, professor. And we have a private healer. I suspect Dumbledore has already been petitioned to allow her entry to the castle.”
“Oh?” McGonagall did sound surprised despite herself. “We had all naturally assumed, but it is no matter. Mr. Prince will, of course, receive the best medical care that Lord and Lady Prince seek to provide him with. A specialist can be a great help in these matters. I will recommend that this healer be allowed to enter the grounds and see to Mr. Prince’s needs, Mr. Prince.””
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Prince,” she began tentatively. “I know you have a guardian in Sirius Black, but I have looked after you to the best of my ability in his unfortunate absence. I cannot help but to ask, are you sure this is what you want? I know it was a bonding and so there is no honorable way out of such a situation except separation, but you’re awfully young.”
“My parents were young when they got married,” Harry countered kindly. “Hagrid said something about them being married just out of Hogwarts. They were just eighteen.”
“But you are sixteen. There’s a great deal of difference between those two ages,” she pointed out.
“Perhaps. But Sirius allowed it, as did Lord Prince. We’re very happy, Octavian and I. I know it may be hard to believe, but it’s been a year long, private romance. Well, nearly year long. Half a year, if I’m honest.” He smiled sheepishly at her. “Lord Prince made us wait to make it official.”
“And you certainly did that,” McGonagall stated, not completely unkindly. She shook herself a little, a bit like a cat would. “As you’re Quidditch Captain this year, Professor Snape and I have agreed that your shared quarters with Mr. Prince should be near the Gryffindor Common Room. You will, of course, have access to your own common rooms and are to be welcomed in either. You’re a corridor down from Gryffindor tower, up in one of the side turrets. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“I’m sure it is,” Harry agreed, taking a sip of his tea and grabbing another sandwich. He didn’t want to get hungry later.
“Also, Mr. Prince’s house elf Trixie is allowed to wait on you given Mr. Prince’s condition. Lord Prince, in his letter to Headmaster Dumbledore, asked that the situation be kept as private as possible. All nutritional aids will be administered to Mr. Prince in the privacy of your quarters.”
Harry nodded. It made sense.
McGonagall slid a sheet of paper toward him. Harry looked at it. On it were three passwords, each labeled. One to his quarters, one to Gryffindor, and one to Slytherin.
“Your bed will remain in Gryffindor tower, as will Mr. Prince’s in the Slytherin dungeons, in case there are any marital disputes. Young marriages are often tumultuous. There has also been a couch provided for such a reason.”
“I—see.” Harry didn’t like to think of such contingencies, but it was somehow comforting that they were in place. He preferred sleeping in Octavian’s arms, but even he had to admit that he got moody and sometimes just needed his space.
“Now we just have to wait for Professor Snape and Mr. Prince,” McGonagall informed him. “Then I can show you to your quarters.”
They were exquisite. Done in hues of royal purple and lavender, the room had a large four-poster bed that dominated the room. There were two small studies off to the side as well as a large en suite bathroom. The promised couch, done in silver and gray, was sitting right in front of the fire.
There were landscapes on the wall of the White Cliffs of Dover and the White Horse at Uffington. Stonehenge was also prominent above the hearth as was the Ring of Bodgar over the bed. A small table was off to one side with cushions on the floor for the two of them to sit.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, cousin,” Snape said to Octavian, obviously choosing to be informal with him. “I secured the best room in the tower for you.”
“Yes, thank you, Severus. I’ll be certain to tell Father,” Octavian responded, his eyes wide as he looked out the window that one of the desks was facing. There was a small hearth in the room. “I think I’ll take this one, Henri Jacques. It overlooks the Black Lake.”
Harry came up to stand behind him and kissed the top of his head, having to stand on tiptoe to do so. “I don’t mind looking out over those gardens,” he said conversationally. “What are they, anyway?” he asked McGonagall, turning his head toward her. “I’ve never seen them before.”
“They’re the headmaster’s private garden, Mr. Prince,” she answered. “He’s the only one to have access.”
Harry hummed, turning back to the Black Lake. “Come, let’s let Trixie unpack. I know you probably want to see the Malfoys.”
“I’ll lead you down,” Snape offered, a slight sneer in his voice, “as you don’t know the way, Potter—Prince.”
Draco was not at all happy when he saw them entering. “What were you thinking?” he asked Octavian as soon as they appeared, his voice low. “Io wouldn’t stop crying because she hadn’t been invited!”
“Who’s Io?” Harry asked, confused.
“Iolanthe, my little sister. She just got sorted into Slytherin,” Draco said proudly. “But that’s beside the point. You,” he said to Octavian, “made Io cry. Never mind the fact that Father is furious. You didn’t even send him a cursory letter to inform him of your nuptials.”
“It happened rather quickly,” Octavian defended. “Besides, I’m a Prince, not a Malfoy. I didn’t need to inform anyone.”
Draco looked visibly hurt. “If that’s how you feel about it.”
“Who was the one who delivered me into the hands of the Dark Lord? I was thirteen! Thirteen, Draco!”
“Such things should not be discussed in front of Potter,” Draco said warningly.
“It’s Prince now, actually,” Harry butted in. “And Octavian and I have no secrets.” He wrapped an arm around Octavian’s waist. “We’re married, remember?”
“How could I forget?” Draco said scathingly. He turned back to Octavian. “Why didn’t you at least invite me? You invited Urquhart and that Hufflepuff as your witnesses. I wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss.”
“Draco, you know I couldn’t. If I had—“
“Father would have gotten an injunction,” Draco said knowingly. This, however, just confused Harry. Draco sighed. “I see. Still, you need to speak with Io. She’s distraught. Go while I threaten Prince here.”
Octavian eyed him warily before nodding. He looked over near the fire where there was a young girl with golden curls and gray eyes talking to another girl. This, clearly, was Iolanthe Malfoy. She looked just like Draco and Octavian.
“Right,” Draco said, once Octavian walked away. “I’m warning you, Prince. Octavian is considered a member of my family and if you do anything to him, our wrath will descend upon you. More specifically, I will curse you into a coma that you will never wake up from.”
“Can you even do that?” Harry taunted. “Magically, I mean? You’ve never bested me in a fight.”
Draco growled. Actually growled. “When it comes to my protégé, I can do anything,” he promised darkly. “I don’t think you realize how deep such a connection goes. It’s as deep as blood in Slytherin house, when it’s done properly. And trust me, I’d defend Octavian with my life.”
“Then he’s lucky,” Harry realized, “to have a friend like you. Just protect him from this horrible war. You know exactly what I mean. He’s already too caught up in it as it is.”
Draco eyed him warily. “I don’t think any of us have a choice.”
“Well, I’m telling you to give him one,” Harry warned. “He’s my husband now and I will keep him out of it as much as I possibly can. But you have to do your part.”
Instead of acknowledging this, Draco decided to change tactics. “So what’s it like, Prince? To be pregnant?”
“Same old, same old,” he responded cheekily. “If it’s not this, then it’s something else.”
“I bet you’re regretting taking the Gnascum Potion so soon.”
“Why would I regret it?” Harry questioned. “I’m going to have a beautiful baby girl with my hair and Octavian’s eyes, hopefully. I can’t stand my eyes. If I have to hear one more time that I have ‘Lily’s eyes’ I’m going to scream.”
“Don’t like being compared to a Mudblood?”
Harry looked at Draco balefully. “Don’t like being reminded of my mum, that’s all.” And he didn’t. Every time he was compared to her, he could hear her screams in his head. He had the dementors to thank for that.
He looked over to Octavian and Iolanthe Malfoy. She was hugging him desperately, and he was holding her to him. There was more than just friendship there. Somehow, Harry would have to figure this whole connection-to-the-Malfoys thing out. It wouldn’t do to ask Octavian. He would just deny the whole affair.
“Looks like your sister is happy,” Harry noted.
Draco followed his gaze. “Good, he’s making up with her.” Iolanthe was now admiring Octavian’s wedding band. Another girl with platinum blonde curls and the same features was looking over at them. She must be another Malfoy then.
“How many siblings do you have?”
Draco hesitated a moment. “Lacerta and Iolanthe.” He pointed them out. “Lacy’s a third year and Io’s just starting.”
Harry hummed. Sirius had told him that summer that his mum had been pregnant when she was killed by Voldemort. He should have had a little brother or sister, but that was stolen away from him, too.
“Io was rather upset,” Octavian said when they were back in their room. Harry was looking in his closet and saw that all of their things had been unpacked. It seemed that he and Octavian had two separate closets. “I promised her photographs. I think we’ll have to make her godmother.”
Harry snorted. “Do you think that’s wise? I know you’re close to Draco Malfoy but do we really have to invite them into our lives any more than we already have?”
“It’s no worse than making Ron Weasley godfather.” Harry looked at him. “Don’t tell me that’s not what you’re thinking. He’s your closest friend.”
“I hadn’t actually,” Harry admitted. “For all of his support at the wedding, he has been rather vocal about the fact that you’re a Slytherin git. But we are not naming Draco Malfoy. That’s where I draw the line.”
“I had figured that out,” Octavian laughed. “However, you can’t fault an eleven-year-old girl. She’s too adorable for words.”
Harry came over to him and kissed him softly. “We’ll talk about it when it gets closer to the time,” he murmured. “Let’s just celebrate the fact that we’re away from Dark Lords and all authority figures in our own room for the entire year.”
“We were away from these said authority figures last night,” Octavian quipped.
“Yes, but we only had one night of freedom,” Harry answered, kissing Octavian again. “We’re newlyweds. Let’s have fun acting like it.”
“Aren’t you afraid that we’re replacing sex with more important things?” Octavian bit his lip. “Shouldn’t we come to know each other better? Fall in love?”
“All right,” Harry agreed, “let’s just get changed first.”
When they were ready for bed and sipping cocoa that Trixie had gotten for them, Harry took a deep breath and told Octavian about his childhood. He spoke about his cupboard, how he cooked for the Dursleys, how he did the gardening, all of it. Octavian listened, not asking any questions, just squeezing Harry’s hand in solidarity.
“I don’t like Muggles,” he finally said, when Harry finished. “I was taught not to trust them—and Muggle-borns by extension. Half-bloods are a gray area. I was always told that I should be proud to be a pureblood, that I was better than everyone because of my heritage. That I should be afraid of Muggles because of what they have done to us—to wizards—in the past.” He sighed and took a sip of his cocoa. “But then I met you. I didn’t know if you were a pureblood or a Muggleborn, but I heard that unearthly lullaby and I just knew that I had to get close to you. Then when I found out who you were, my heart sank. I thought that Father would never let me associate with you, but I became friends with you anyway.
“Then you told me about your feelings for me, and I heard the lullaby again in my dreams, so I took you to the fireflies and the music was playing in the wind. So I took the leap of faith and let you kiss me.” He shrugged. “You know the rest.”
Harry leaned forward and kissed Octavian sweetly. When he made to withdraw, Octavian placed a hand on Harry’s cheek, urging him to stay. Octavian smiled and kissed him again, setting the hot chocolate down blindly. He climbed into Harry’s lap and Harry’s arms snaked around Octavian’s waist.
“I thought we were supposed to be getting to know each other,” he murmured against Octavian’s lips as Octavian began to unbutton his silk nightshirt.
“That’s what I’m doing.”
Harry grabbed him and pushed him onto his back and loomed over him. Fear flashed through Octavian’s eyes and he started pushing Harry away.
“No,” he breathed desperately. “Not like this. Never like this.”
Harry immediately retreated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“
Octavian was breathing laboriously as he sat up, his hands on his knees. “It’s not you—the Dark Lord—he—“ Tears were now streaming down his face.
“Hush,” Harry whispered, coming closer and taking Octavian in his arms. He swept Octavian up bridal style and took him to bed where he held Octavian all night, the two cuddled against each other.
Excentryke's Musings 