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06 January 2009 @ 02:22 am
On the twelfth Day of Christmas, blamebrampton gave to me ...  
Fic, or at least, part one of what will be two or three! (Lists will be finished this month, too!)

But first, HAPPY BIRTHDAYS TO foi_nefaste , fallinskye  and japanimecrazed 

You know how all the best Harry Potter moments come to people on trains? My brain doesn't work like that. My brain says things like 'God, can you imagine if there really was mpreg in the HP-verse? Malfoy would be FURIOUS.

You know how I have these bad ideas now and then? Yeah. Don't read this if you believe that every sperm is sacred and every embryo a gift from above, because you will loathe it!

Otherwise, feel free to inflict it on yourself with the twin warnings that it's quite cracky and also what I genuinely believe would happen given the circumstances that follow. It is a WIP, but I will be finishing it this week or weekend, and it's unbeta-ed because it's too stupid for words.

Author: blamebrampton, but she is very ashamed
Title: A Single Wizard’s Guide to Fatherhood
Summary: Drinking can have very, very bad results and condoms aren't just for Muggles. These are just two of the vital life lessons learned by our heroes in the course of this fic.
Pairing: H/D unless they kill each other, which is highly likely.
Warnings: EWE, mpreg, but the mpreg that people who like mpreg won't like, gin and hot baths, lack of paternal instincts, rampant ridiculouslness.
Rating: Horrid!
Word count: 3168 this part, probably 10-15K all up, 5 written so far.
Disclaimer: JKR not only has nothing to do with this, she would run screaming from it, as should all right thinking people.

They were drunk.

Of course they were drunk, it would never have happened if they were sober. Probably never. Not unless they had actually spoken to each other when emotions were running high after the whole Fiendfyre and Voldemort killing thing, or been forced to work closely with each other, or been each other’s only support in a foreign country, or perhaps waited for 15-odd years.

But as it happened, they were thoroughly, utterly, appallingly drunk.

So drunk that people were actually surprised when they were coordinated enough to stagger off together. Surprised that they could walk more than that they were together. Hermione Granger watched them leave the pub nodding quietly beside Ron Weasley, who was overheard muttering, ‘I feared this day would come.’

Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and Blaise Zabini all smiled knowingly at each other, and Gregory Goyle wished out loud that he had followed his father’s advice and fled the country so that he could have died without seeing that.

Rumour has it that later that night, Ginny Weasley, in the privacy of her own flat, where only Dean Thomas could hear, gleefully punched the air, crowed in a supportive and sensitive fashion, and declared: ‘I knew it! I knew it wasn’t me!’

What is certain, because Pansy Parkinson saw it when she went to Draco Malfoy’s the next morning for breakfast, was that Harry Potter shook Draco Malfoy’s hand on his front doorstep and left him with the phrase, ‘You’re quite right, we’ll never mention it again. Cheers, Malfoy.’

It probably would have ended there, aside from years of harmless and understanding comedy stylings from their friends, were it not for an unexpected consequence.

Again, Pansy Parkinson was the woman on the scene when Draco Malfoy appeared in her Floo, gave a look of horrified apology with one hand clutched to his mouth and sprinted past her to the loo. Ten minutes later he reappeared and groaned in thanks for the ginger tea and cucumber sandwiches that Pansy had covered a side table with.

‘You look awful,’ she told him with love.

‘I feel awful,’ he agreed. ‘It’s been going on for days. Usually settles down in the late afternoon, but I’m nervous about eating now because it all just comes back up in the morning.’

Pansy frowned. ‘That can’t be good. Have you been to see a Healer?’

‘Not yet,’ Draco admitted. ‘I keep thinking it will clear up by itself.’

‘I think a visit after morning tea, yes?’

And so it was that Pansy was with Draco when the Healer’s eyes went wide, and he stammered an apology and asked if they would mind accompanying him to St Mungo’s.

‘Is that necessary?’ Draco asked.

‘I rather think it might be,’ the Healer urged. ‘If you’d like a moment to consider, I need to make the arrangements, I’ll be back shortly.’

‘Oh Merlin, Pans,’ Draco gasped. ‘I’m dying!’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ Pansy snapped. ‘You’re too annoying to die young, you’ll be around for years.’ But she was worried. The Healer had seemed startled, then wholly nonplussed. She had never seen one rush from a consulting room in such a fashion before, and the deliberate caginess as to his tentative diagnosis gave her no ease.

St Mungo’s was little better. Over the course of the next four hours, no fewer than six specialists came and prodded Malfoy, casting spells, looking in books, muttering among themselves. Draco had worked himself into a rare state of panic according to Ms Parkinson, when an elderly witch, one of the pre-eminent research Healers of our time, walked quietly into his room.

‘Mr Malfoy,’ she began. ‘I am so sorry that we have kept you waiting, but it seems that you present us with a fascinating case, the likes of which we have not seen in many years. I am all but certain of my diagnosis, but I do require the absolute truth from you in order to confirm it, and I fear you have not been wholly frank with my staff. Will you tell me the truth?’

‘Do you think I’m dying?’ he asked her, face white.

She laughed. ‘Quite the contrary.’

Draco’s whole body relaxed in relief. ‘Ask away, then.’

‘Have you had sex with another wizard in the last two months?’

Draco’s whole body tried to sink through the mattress of the bed it was on. While turning a bright shade of red.

‘I do need the truth, Mr Malfoy,’ she reminded him.

‘I was very, very, very drunk, and it only happened the once. Possibly twice or thrice if the bastard took advantage of me after I passed out.’

‘And you were the receptive partner?’

Pansy hid a giggle behind her hands.

Draco groaned. ‘I was VERY VERY VERY DRUNK!’ he protested. Then he dropped his head into his hands. ‘I’ve changed my mind, I’d quite like something fatal, thanks. And if it could be fast acting, that would be perfect.’

The senior Healer laughed richly. ‘You won’t think that in a moment, Mr Malfoy. It is my delight and pleasure to inform you that you are with child!’

Draco turned and grabbed Pansy’s wrists, pleased to see that her face was as white as his suddenly felt. ‘If you have ever loved me,’ he implored, ‘kill me now!’

‘Oh darling,’ she said in sympathy. ‘If I thought for a moment I could get away with it, I would!’


There were many people who saw Draco Malfoy leave St Mungo’s that day, though not as many as the number who say they did. Those who were actually there say that they saw a broken man, shaking at the latest twist of an unkind Fate. Save for Miss Ermintrude van der Weyden, who swears he was buoyant and radiant and borne along by an inner sense of purpose. Miss van der Weyden was famous in her local community as a elderly witch who lived alone with no fewer than 13 cats, and who had been left at the altar as a young woman, so her word can be discounted here.

Every witness agrees on the fact that Pansy Parkinson appeared to be the only thing between Draco Malfoy and imminent collapse. Her solicitude, as Miss van der Weyden put it, was touching in the extreme, and they all felt secure in knowing he had such a dear friend to help him.

‘We will,’ said Pansy, as she staggered slightly trying to balance Draco’s height against her slender frame, ‘find a shop that sells liquor and purchase a bottle of gin. One with many juniper berries in it!’

‘I could brew a potion,’ Draco offered.

‘In your delicate condition? No, it needs to be gin, and then we will run you a hot bath. And if that doesn’t work, we will go for long and vigorous horse rides.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I read. My horizons have expanded since I was at school, Muggle literature is full of good ideas. For instance, I was able to work out very quickly that the reason you are just not that into me was that you’re gay.’

‘I am not!’ Draco protested.

Pansy snorted. ‘Oh please. Granger told me what you said in the pub that night: “Give it to me, Potter, I bet you’ve got a big one.” The two of you are like some sort of ongoing private Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald Re-enactment Society.’

‘Pansy! How could you?’ Draco was genuinely hurt.

‘Infer you’d join a re-enactment group?’ she smiled gently. ‘I suppose that was a little harsh.’

‘Infer I’d shag Dumbledore!’

‘Sorry darling. Oh, look!’

The shop that stood before them was solidly Muggle, and in the window stood a pyramid of beautiful light-blue bottles.

‘Bombay Sapphire, that’s the stuff! You prop yourself up here, I’ll dash in and buy us a few bottles.’

‘Pans, it’s a Muggle shop,’ Draco pointed out.

‘Der, I have a credit card! What do you think I use to buy all my trashy books?’

‘What would I do without you?’

‘Never have I more honestly said “be lost”.’

Pansy made sure Draco was secure in his verticality before she nipped into the shop, appearing a few minutes later with three bottles in a paper bag. He had canted very slightly to the lee, but was mostly holding up. She gave him a brave smile.

‘Arm around my shoulders, darling. Just a bit further and then we can Apparate back to your place.’

‘You really are my best-ever friend, Pans,’ Draco told her. ‘Far far better than any of the boys. Better than Blaise. Better than Greg. ‘

‘I know, dear. And you will buy me some lovely shoes to say thank you.’

‘I will!’ Draco promised. He was feeling a little better. While the news had been upsetting, and the clucking, giggling reaction of the St Mungo’s staff flat-out disturbing, he was in Pansy’s hands now, and she would take good care of him.

A quarter of an hour later, as she sat on the edge of his bath and passed him a crystal glass full to the brim of ice and the surprisingly palatable drink, he felt almost as though things were returning to normal.

Male pregnancies were all but unheard of, and those that were recorded almost always ended in miscarriage, so he would be little more than a footnote in the medical records of this time. St Mungo’s had all the records of their spells and scans to study, so they would be happy, and Pansy had assured him that, while uncomfortable, this shouldn’t hurt a bit according to her reading.

He leaned back, welcoming the cool of the marble against the back of his neck – the rest of him felt as though it were being parboiled. A sip of his drink, two, and then a sudden crashing and swearing could be heard storming through the house.

‘There is no way your parents have heard already,’ Pansy muttered.

‘It can’t be Lucius. The house is warded against them,’ said Draco, tiredly.

‘Cold,’ said Pansy, impressed.

‘It was the only way to stop Mother popping in at odd hours with potential wives. I’ve promised her I’ll take them down for Christmas and my birthday.’

‘That’s fair. So who do you allow through your wards who runs up and down hallways shouting?’ she asked, though the eloquent curve of her eyebrow made it clear she knew the answer.

‘It was just the once,’ Draco said in his defence.

‘And yet you never revoked his right to enter,’ Pansy pointed out.


The door swung open violently. ‘Malfoy!’ exclaimed Potter. Then, ‘What are you doing?!’ Then, ‘Stop that!’

He crossed the capacious bathroom in three strides and snatched the glass from Draco’s hand, then turned his wand on the water of the bath, rendering it instantly tepid.

‘Oh Merlin,’ said Draco.

‘Oh goody!’ said Pansy.

‘You can leave,’ said Harry, glaring at Pansy.

‘She can stay,’ Draco corrected.

‘You were hoping he’d come back,’ Pansy winked at Draco.

‘Do shut up, there’s a love,’ he replied.

Does he have a big one?’


‘Just what do you think you are doing?’ Harry demanded, waving the glass for emphasis and sloshing gin down his leg in the process.

‘What you’ve always hoped for,’ Draco replied haughtily. ‘I’ve come over all Muggle!’

‘Idiot!’ Harry put the glass down on the towel dresser and reached inside his robes to pull out a small book. ‘Did you not listen to a thing they told you at St Mungo’s? This is a rare and precious gift! And one that is intensely magical! You can’t make it go away with flawed folk remedies!’

‘Flawed?’ Draco looked at Pansy with hurt in his eyes.

‘I thought it was a certain bet,’ she replied sincerely. ‘But they were novels I was reading.’

Harry held up the book. ‘The Healers gave me this, it says that trying to harm the baby could cause you terrible harm!’

‘But what does it have to say about succeeding in harming it?’ Draco asked eagerly reaching for the book.

‘How can you say such a thing?’ Harry demanded

‘Quite easily! You would too if you had a parasite sponging off your vital essence!’

‘It’s not a parasite, it’s a baby!’ Harry insisted.

‘Foetus,’ Pansy corrected, snatching the book from Harry’s hands and returning to her spot on the side of the bath. ‘So it is more parasitic than anything else, since it can’t survive independently.’

‘You’re both completely heartless,’ Harry said, shaking his head.

‘That’s right, dear, glare at the nasty people.’ She opened the book and started flicking through its pages.

‘It’s a baby, Draco. Surely you at least owed it to me to let me know before you decided what you were going to do!’

Draco boggled at him. ‘I’m sorry, do I need to ask you if it’s all right to go for a piss, or breathe in some oxygen. It’s a biological function, nothing more. The fact that you had a hand in it makes it no more yours than the hangover you left me with.’

Harry opened and shut his mouth for a minute or so. ‘There are so many things wrong about that statement that I don’t know where to begin!’ he said at last.

‘His body, his choice,’ Pansy muttered, immersed in her reading. ‘Oh my goodness! Draco! Do you know how the babies come out in male pregnancies? You grow a passage!

Draco’s hands dropped to his groin. ‘But I don’t want a passage!’ he wailed. ‘I like my penis! We’re friends! It gets me into trouble now and then, but it’s always been there for me!’

‘No, no,’ said Pansy excitedly. ‘You keep your penis, you have both!’

‘AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGH!’ Draco leapt from his bath and launched himself at Harry, his hands closing around the other man’s throat. ‘You’ve made me into an hermaphrodite!’

Pansy waited until Potter had started to turn a funny puce shade before she intervened. ‘Come away, lamb, you’ll regret it if you kill him.’

Harry sank to the floor, and lay there damply gasping. Pansy led Draco back to the bath and sat him down on its broad lip.

‘Well,’ she said, picking up the open bottle and taking a long swig from it. ‘Here’s another merry pickle we find ourselves in. Spec-face is right, magical pregnancies do everything they can to hold on, including putting the host into a coma. The odds are still good it will all resolve itself naturally, but it seems you can’t do anything to seriously help it on its way without putting yourself into a world of danger.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Draco whispered. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘What are we going to do,’ Harry corrected him weakly, from the floor. ‘And put some clothes on.’

‘You’ve seen me naked, Potter,’ Draco snarked at him. ‘That’s how this whole disaster started. And Pansy and I bathed together as children. Though pass me a towel, Pans, I am getting cold.’

‘I’m the father of your child, Draco,’ Harry said, standing up. ‘The Healers called me the minute you left St Mungo’s. You can’t freeze me out!’

Draco wrapped the large towel around himself like a senatorial toga, and the look he turned on Harry was wholly Augustan. ‘I am sorry to disabuse you of your fanciful notion Mr Potter, but I am the father of this foetus and I will be making the decisions regarding it.’

‘Then if you don’t want it, decide to give it to me!’ Harry pleaded.

Draco perked up. ‘Ooh! Can we do that?’ he asked Pansy, who had gone back to the book. ‘Magic it out of me and into him?’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, blondie, can’t be done. I think he means after it’s born.’

‘Of course that’s what I meant’ Harry sighed.

‘I see. So it’s good enough for me to have to carry this thing around for nine months, but beneath your dignity. Right. Bloody typical.’

‘That is not what I said,’ Harry began.

‘Draco,’ said Pansy.

‘It’s what you meant, though. I see right through you Potter. What you’re actually thinking is “Hurrah for me and my super sperm that defeats the laws of nature!” You got me drunk and took advantage of me and now you come storming in here trying to order me about because you have some crazed notion of … of… what are your notions about, anyway?’

‘Family!’ Harry insisted.

‘Draco,’ Pansy tried again.

‘Family?’ Draco cried in exasperation. ‘Potter, it was a one-night stand. You were very happy when I agreed never to mention it again and you didn’t even buy me a good breakfast afterwards, let alone send a thank-you note.’

‘I’m talking about the baby! And do people usually send you thank you notes? Why does the upper class have such strange etiquette?’

‘Draco!’ Pansy broke through.

‘What?’ Draco snapped.

‘It’s not nine months,’ she said, with the faintest tremble in her voice.

‘Oh Merlin, don’t tell me it’s more!’ Draco groaned.

Pansy shook her head. ‘No, according to the book, the first two months proceed as normal, then the remaining gestation is all crammed into the final month. It’s three months all together. You’ll be giving birth in four weeks.’

‘I hate you, Potter,’ said Draco, collapsing elegantly into Harry and Pansy’s arms.


Later that afternoon, Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood descended on Draco’s house with crates full of herbal supplements and books for reading about magical pregnancy and childbirth.

An Owl arrived from his parents asking if the news were true and congratulating him if it were since such a condition was considered a stamp of magical superiority among Purebloods. They even conceded that the Potter family had been quite impressive in its heyday, so he mustn’t be too embarrassed about his choices.

‘I hate you, Potter!’ Draco screamed down the hallway to where he knew Harry was sitting drinking tea with Hermione and Pansy.


A week later, Draco popped the button from his trousers while bending over to tie his shoes. He stomped to the Floo and threw a pinch of powder in before shouting an address to call. When a familiar face appeared in the flames, Draco took the deepest breath he could manage before bellowing: ‘I HATE YOU, Potter!’


Two weeks after that, with belly huge and ankles swollen, Draco lay back on his chaise longue, which was the only piece of furniture he could comfortably roll on to and off again aside from his bed, and threw balls of scrunched-up paper at Harry Potter’s head.

‘All right, I’ll get you more ice-cream and you can have all the roast duck and asparagus you want, just stop that,’ Harry said with exasperation.

‘I don’t want to stop,’ Draco said calmly. ‘I am sending you a message.’

Harry reached down and picked up one of the balls. In elegant cursive script it said: I hate you, Potter.

Part two

blamebramptonblamebrampton on January 5th, 2009 05:00 pm (UTC)
Lucius is a model of practicality. He will appear on page in the next installments.