Chapter Text
Cover Art by LuckyOrNot
Because the thing about desire is that it's stronger when it's not totally satisfied.
Justin Keenan
The first time Draco hears about Miss Grinch is over croque madame.
Lyra is upset that the chef has not made her egg runny to the perfect degree. Her bright silver eyes slant in a way that mirrors Draco’s, and he thinks part of it is some sort of penance he’s meant to pay—all those years of spoiled, incessantly bratty behaviour manifesting as a miniature pig-tailed version of himself come to bite him in the arse.
He loves his daughter more than anything in the world.
So, when she complains about the eggs, he takes some stock. How many times has she complained about the eggs before? This definitely isn’t the first instance, which insinuates a pattern of not meeting his daughter’s wishes. Irritating. He’d have to talk to the chef.
Or he could send Theo to talk to the chef.
No, that’d be cruel. Draco knows when to pick his battles—this is one he could solve with enough civility to ensure no one lost their life or a major limb. But he wouldn’t tolerate disrespect of his baby girl.
If there was a static centre of the universe, Lyra Malfoy was it.
Draco tried not to spoil her, but from the moment her little head lay atop his bare chest in the healer’s suite, he was gone. There was nothing he would not do to ensure his daughter had what she wanted.
He snaps his fingers, and the plates are cleared.
“What do you want, piccina?”
“Hmm. Pancakes,” Lyra says, assured in a way that makes Draco’s heart seize. On the exterior, he schools his features to let just his lip twitch.
“Just pancakes? I thought you had a better imagination than that.”
“Miss Grinch says I have the best imagination.”
“Grinch?” The unfamiliar name makes his eyes slant slightly.
Though there are people on payroll who have been vetted, and then vetted again to know Lyra’s schedule, to know every person who worked at her school, to know the parents and the children who attended—Draco knows too.
So the unfamiliar name makes something twist in his gut, though nothing on his face betrays that.
“She’s the helper for Mrs Trewitt,” Lyra says, exasperated with the delay of her requested pancakes. She reaches a hand out for the colouring page and crayons she abandoned once the food was presented to her. Draco watches her for a moment, thoughts twirling.
Someone new in the school, and no one had informed him. Annoyance flares inside him. What the fuck did he pay people for if not to know this sort of thing?
“She’s the best,” his daughter adds, and Draco turns his attention back to her. She holds up a picture.
He distinguishes two figures, whom he theorises are girls, signified by the triangle-shaped dresses that match side by side, one tall, one short. Stick arms link them, the smaller reaching up to meet the taller.
Lyra has written her own name—penmanship poor, but she’s six and hasn’t been stuck in those classes yet—with an arrow pointing to the smaller stick figure. Next to the other, she has artfully depicted an array of scribbles encircling the head, shooting out in various directions. Beyond that, a small line in her handwriting, ‘Mis Grunchr.’
“Gruncher?”
“Grinch,” Lyra corrects with a sigh, because her father is just so daft.
Pancakes arrive for Lyra, and Draco watches her eat—happy, and feels something loosen in his chest.
“When did Miss Grinch start?”
Lyra looks up in thought, grey eyes shifting to the ceiling, and twists her sticky pancake fork on her plate.
“I don’t ‘member.”
“Does she have a lot of hair?” Draco asks, still looking at the scribbles surrounding the taller stick figure's head.
“Yes! Sometimes before, when she lets us brush it but not anymore, because Lily got the brush stuck inside.”
“Ah, I see,” Draco says with a nod, setting his mug down. Lyra takes another bite, then stands up and bounds from her seat. She comes to her father’s side, running on the newfound sugar-induced high from the syrup she’s inhaled, and sets the picture down in front of him.
“She’s really pretty, Papà.”
“Not as pretty as you,” he responds, quickly pulling her in and kissing her on the forehead. Lyra giggles, delighted before wrenching her head back, a gap-toothed smile prominent on her face. Her brown tresses have come loose in the attack of affection, and stray strands fall in front of her face. At this age, she reminds Draco a lot of her mother.
He has to look away.
“Papà, can you pick me up from school today?”
“Why, princess?”
“Cause Olivia’s dad always picks her up and I only have Uncle Greg and everyone thinks he’s my dad and he’s not.”
Draco nods along, tucking her hair back behind her ear.
“Of course.”
“You promise?” Lyra stretches the word, imbibing a certain level of conspiratorial scheming to it.
“I promise,” he says, wrapping his pinky around hers and drawing it to his lips to kiss her knuckles.
He’ll do anything for Lyra, but even he can admit this is mildly self-serving. He knows he has some things to sort regarding this mystery teacher.
Only the best for a Malfoy.
It was a sentiment he’d believed full-heartedly.
His father’s many-ringed hand gripped the top of a silver-encased cane, strolling through the rose gardens with a small Draco trailing after him. Draco, trying to match his stride, took longer steps, hopping from one weathered step to the next as he did his best to keep up. He remembered the hard line of his father’s robes when he halted, Draco all but slamming into him.
With his back still turned to his son, Lucius asked a question.
“Are you aware of what is expected of you?”
Draco’s brows came together. He didn’t have the answer. He hated moments like these, when he and his father were on separate wavelengths. When he wouldn’t turn and show him what was in his eyes, when he made Draco guess.
Lucius tutted, a small sound of displeasure that rocked Draco to his core.
He hated moments when he disappointed Father.
“Your uncle has no sons.”
Draco squinted, confusion marring his features. Uncle Tom, who wasn’t really his uncle, at least not by blood. He’d known him since birth, a fixed presence on the outliers of all of Draco’s formative memories. Uncle Tom didn’t have a son, but he had two daughters. Draco thought of his uncle, a man always surrounded by others, the single signet ring on his thumb clinking against the side of a glass that never ran empty, a murmured ‘Draco, my boy’ before he was whisked back to the outskirts, kept at a distance. His father, always kept close by his uncle, watching his son through slanted eyes.
“You’re expected to help him when it’s time.”
When would it be time? Draco thought. What sort of help did he need? Draco stood taller, wondering how he could be of service to a man he hardly even knew.
He wanted to be like his father. He wanted to know things. He wanted to match his long strides, stand in his crisp black robes, wanted to understand how the world worked – how their family worked. Draco wanted to stand at his uncle’s side and be told the same as him. He wanted to be invited inside when the men of the family disappeared behind the heavy mahogany doors of a study that didn’t get used otherwise, the room where they stayed long past when Draco’s governess ushered him out of the hall, chiding him for eavesdropping on charmed rooms.
When he was washed, skin soft and smelling of talcum powder and linen, hair combed and still damp against his ears, he would lie in sheets that felt stifling, doing his best to listen for any secret which might escape into the silence.
When he closed his eyes, finally drifting off to a fitful sleep, he dreamt of being invited into the room. Dreamt of his uncle focused on him, clapping a hand on his shoulder like he did the older men. He dreamt of replacing his father at his uncle’s side, standing tall in robes that didn’t smell reminiscent of baby powder and governed bedtimes, dreamt of being a man his father might walk next to one day, matching pace as they strolled the gardens, speaking heads-together of things that only men discussed.
He didn’t know that he’d been dreaming of something that was already bound by blood.
They don’t talk much.
Draco flicks his fingers, index and middle folding in quickly, twice in towards his chest. Eyes track the gesture, in wait for the next move and understanding as soon as Draco gives it.
Everybody moves without further command.
The doors of the study are pulled open, outside stands John—of average height, stocky build, quick to anger, forgettable John—shuffling back and forth on his feet. He’s a third cousin, removed a few times, maybe. Draco doesn’t have to know this, but he does. Knowing the family tree, and who is next in line for what, keeps him on his toes.
Theo sweeps a hand out from his side, bored, and John takes a cartoonish gulp, entering the room. The door shuts behind them.
Everyone that had been inside has left, not needing Draco to say as much because it was understood. These sorts of commands and wordless communication were a dance that had been in motion since before Draco, even before Tom. Same steps, different performers.
John’s got two left feet.
He stops short, either fear or shock of his newfound predicament glueing him to the floor, and Theo grunts a warning. He takes a few more short steps in, still a ways away from Draco, who remains seated.
“Johnny,” Draco greets, voice icy, detached.
Theo walks around the trembling man, stopping against a bookshelf and crossing his arms over his chest. Theo’s good for this sort of thing—being second. He didn’t want anything from Draco in the way that others might. He hardly wanted to be a part of the family in the first place, but his loyalty to Draco was unwavering.
He also liked to fuck with people.
Draco knows Theo probably muttered under his breath as he guided John to the room, probably whistled low about disappointing the Don, putting the cosca at risk, torture, punishment, ramblings in Italian that John couldn’t decipher. John was too stupid to reach those sorts of conclusions by himself, too stupid to do anything really, as evidenced by the circumstances that put him in the room now.
Draco puts up with Theo’s theatrics because of the unwavering loyalty, because he’s known him all these years, because it could have just as easily been Theo in this position as it was Draco, but several months in birth order made all the difference.
One of two boys would be put up as a sacrificial lamb. They would need to fill the shoes left behind, take on roles out of obligation. It was an honour, they’d insist, but it was never a choice.
They were brothers. Everyone else was considered family, but their relationship ran deeper than that.
Draco stands at his full height, far taller than the man in front of him. He grabs his jacket, puts it on and fixes his cufflinks as he speaks.
“Want to tell me what happened in Leeds?”
John breaks quickly, sputtering, denying the whole thing.
It wasn’t him, he insists. He doesn’t know how the drop’s coordinates got out. He wouldn’t ever betray Draco, never betray blood.
Draco listens, giving John every opportunity to fess up. To have some bollocks.
Now he’s crying, saying he might have let it slip to his wife. He might’ve been piss-drunk at the pub and spoken to a pretty stranger with a prettier mouth. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.
Draco cracks his neck on either side. From his perch, Theo draws in a yawn.
So much for being made. John took that vow of silence knowing he couldn’t shut up. The git wouldn’t instil fear in a group of school girls.
“Please, it was a one-time mistake. I- I- I–”
“One mistake?” asks Draco, tilting his head. He snorts, and Theo follows suit. It’s funny, really, for him to think it's that simple.
John swallows, then starts backpedalling, not wanting to take the blame.
It’s the soldiers, he begs. They’re the talkers. Couldn’t keep their mouths shut if he paid them. They’re blood, he reminds Draco, John wouldn’t do anything to betray his trust.
“Chiacchierone,” mutters Theo, before he draws his wand up and sends a binding hex straight at Johnny. The ropes snake around him, slithering as is Theo’s speciality, braided serpents winding tighter around John’s exposed airway. He falls to the floor, shock melting to fear, and begins to thrash against his confines.
“It’s a pity, really,” Draco drawls, putting his hands into his pockets as he sneers down at the man on the floor. “Hate to do this to family.”
Disgusting.
“Don’t—please, Malfoy. We–we–we grew up together. Our kids play together.”
That was the thing about this sort of work. The stain of blood never quite came out. He’d free up some dead weight, but Lyra lost a play partner.
Fuck. He’d have to buy her a pony or something.
“Yeah,” Draco tuts, arching a brow as he looks away from John’s rasping form. He hears Theo approach over his shoulder and casts a glance his way.
“How should I do it?” asks Theo, wand twirling between his fingers.
“Quick. He is family, after all.”
John starts to scream but is quickly silenced by a Silencio. His mouth opens, lines of spit flinging out as he struggles to beg for mercy that won’t be granted. Draco suspects Theo’s added some element to make it painful, because the thrashing becomes more intense, like John’s lost all control of his limbs. Either that, or he’s finally accepted the gravity of what’s about to happen.
It’s not Draco’s problem anymore. New men will be moved into the area. John’s mistakes will be rectified. Balance is restored.
Losing a third cousin doesn’t shift much in the way of anything.
Draco turns when Theo crouches over John, but not before he sees a smile curling on his features. A long time ago, he wouldn’t take pleasure in this sort of thing. He remembers when they were straightened out—made to take the mark, their palms being cut to drop an offering, a symbol of their loyalty. Theo clenched his jaw so hard that Draco thought his teeth would shatter. The first few months, he’d been a shell of himself—only Draco and Blaise able to pull any signs of life from him.
Then, as more and more was expected of him, it was like a switch flipped. Theo started to smile again, started to seem like he found solace in his duties. He didn’t need distractions, he acted like he needed to get back to work.
For Theo, familiarity bred fondness.
The doors open before he reaches them, another command he doesn’t need to speak out loud, and Draco turns around, a thought coming to mind.
“Theo,” he drawls. His consigliere’s eyes turn up, waiting for a command. Trusting, loyal. If Draco told him to stop now, he would. “Don’t make a mess.”
The doors shut behind him without another sound.
Goyle pulls into the pick-up line, and Draco’s eyes shift to glance out the window.
Spettacolare Preparatory School was the best of the best. Securing Lyra a spot here was expected. She would always get the best, even in her education before Hogwarts.
He knew she would go to Hogwarts because that is where they all had gone. In the years before Draco stepped into his role as the underboss, Hogwarts had been his last chance to play like his life’s path wasn’t already drawn up for him.
There was some freedom, though not much. His friends were chosen for him—sons of capos, boys who knew what was expected of him, expected of themselves. He knew who his wife would be—Astoria, Tom’s daughter.
This was expected of him. And he had loved Astoria in the way you love someone you know all your life. He’d been informed of their betrothal, their promise to one another in the weeks before he was off to school. She must have learned the same. The next time they saw one another, they’d attempted to hold hands—to test their affections.
Warmth was there. Love. But it was mostly hampered by expectations. They dislodged their intertwined fingers after a moment, reserving themselves until the day when they had to fulfil those duties.
Before Hogwarts, some freedom was taken, but boarding school afforded them a lot.
“There she is,” grunts Greg, a man of few words, as he flicks his chin forward. Draco looks, seeing his daughter bounding for the car, hand-in-hand with a stranger.
The sight should make him uncomfortable, he should know everyone who comes in contact with Lyra. As he watches their quick approach, Draco takes in the woman at her side.
She looks young, perhaps in her mid-twenties and sports a mess of wild curls, shooting off in varying directions, accurate in a startling degree to Lyra’s drawing at breakfast.
Mrs Grinch.
Greg rolls down the window, waving a hand that she catches sight of. She smiles, wide and toothy, as she waves back. Draco watches her push back the curls, mouth opening like she’s laughing.
She does have a pretty smile, Draco thinks.
Lyra skips forward, tugging on her hand and beelines for the car. They reach the door before Draco can draw in another breath, pulling open to the backseat where Draco sits and letting in a rush of cool air.
“Oh!” exclaims the woman upon catching sight of Draco in the backseat.
“You came!” Lyra yells, beside herself with delight, a grin splitting her cheeks as she tugs on Mrs Grinch’s arm.
Draco swallows, politely nodding his head. “You must be Mrs Grinch.”
“Oh,” she sputters, then shakes her head, an amused laugh passing between her lips. Draco catalogues her, the way her curls slip from where she’s pushed them behind her ears as her head falls forward a little. She rights herself and looks back at him. “It’s Granger. Sorry, sometimes the littles struggle with it.”
Granger.
Familiar almost.
“Mrs Granger,” he drawls, testing the name on his tongue. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Just Miss,” she corrects, eyes squinting. She inspects him for half a second longer, eyes flickering over his features. He holds her stare, watching as her pupils dilate—something there, something unspoken. Granger draws in a breath, but then she looks away. Lyra tugging her hand pulls her attention, hopping in excitement. Granger’s lips pull up, and Draco finds himself staring as she speaks. “Pleasure, as well. Lyra spends a lot of time telling me about how wonderful her daddy is.”
Draco’s eye twitches. Lyra has never been one to refer to him as daddy, often deferring to Papà or papi.
That was different.
He rights himself, nodding once, and Miss Granger looks back at him, still grinning.
“Well, up you go, Lyra! Don’t keep Daddy waiting.”
Madonna mia. She needs to stop saying that.
Lyra scrambles into the car, tucking herself in the middle seat as close to him as possible, despite the spacious interior.
“See, Ms Grinch, I told you he was handsome.”
Draco sucks in a breath, looking down at Lyra with uncharacteristically wide eyes, unable to hide the surprise at her words.
“Ah, wait, wait, ah,” the woman exhales the silent scream, and Draco turns his attention back in time to see a deep flush settle on her smooth cheeks. Her eyes wind shut, and she shakes her head, then blows out a little exasperated sigh. “I didn’t—I promise I wasn’t asking—I—”
“Lyra, behave.”
His daughter looks up innocently, but Draco recognizes the mischief in her eyes. “And Papi, I said she is pretty. Like my drawing!”
Yes, Lyra was singular. Definitely his child in her proclivity to torment others.
A horn honks in the distance, and Draco draws in a breath, realising they’ve been blocking the traffic.
“I, um. Well! It was great to see you — meet you, I mean!” Granger shuffles back a step, foot catching on the curb, which sends her tumbling backwards. She lands on her feet, and Draco, finding himself unable to look away from her, watches a deep blush flood her already pink cheeks. She looks back to the car, giving another wave. “Okay—I’m okay. Yes. Have a—have a good night!”
And then she turns on her heel and stalks back through the throng of children. Draco watches her departure, eyes falling down to her skirt, before Lyra slams the door shut and pulls his attention.
She looks up at her father expectantly. He looks down at her, grey eyes matching his own.
“See?”
“Lyra,” he warns. The little girl chucks her bag on the floor and settles against his side.
“Told you, Uncle Greg,” Lyra says, closing her eyes like a contented cat as she leans into her father. “You owe me.”
Draco’s eyes cast up to look in the rearview mirror, where Goyle has been watching the entire display. He catches Draco’s stare before looking away.
“You’ll get your ice cream, stellina,” he mutters and, shifting out of park, leaves the pick-up line.