Three More Weeks

The Great Hall of Malfoy Manor was draped in silver and green, enchanted candles floating overhead like frozen tears. Draco stood at the altar, white robes pristine, face a mask he'd spent years perfecting. Beside him, Ron Weasley fidgeted in formal robes tailored too tight across his shoulders, his expression a mix of resentment and resignation that champagne couldn't soften.

The ceremony was a transaction dressed up as tradition. Lucius Malfoy, Azkaban still carved into the hollows of his cheeks, watched from the front row with cold approval. Molly Weasley dabbed at her eyes, but her tears weren't for joy—they were for the son she was losing to a world she'd never understand. The Minister's words blurred into ancient rituals and binding vows.

Draco spoke his promises without a tremor. Ron's responses were clipped, barely audible over rustling silk and the ceremonial fire's crackle. When the golden bands sealed their union, there was no applause, just polite, measured clapping from guests who knew this was a merger, not a marriage.

The reception was a parade of cold canapés and colder glances. Draco circulated, smile fixed, hands steady as he accepted congratulations from people who'd have seen him in Azkaban three years ago. Ron stood by the bar, knocking back firewhisky with his brothers, who tried to joke but couldn't hide their unease.

Draco watched him from across the room. Ron's hair was shorter now, his freckles faded in the dim light, but the anger in his shoulders was the same anger that had followed him through the war. Draco knew that anger. He'd grown up with it, reflected in his father's cold silences and his mother's careful steps.

By midnight, the guests were gone. The manor settled into its familiar silence, and Draco climbed the stairs alone.

---

The master bedroom was a monument to Malfoy excess. Four-poster bed draped in velvet, fireplace carved with serpents that seemed to writhe in the low light. Draco stood before the mirror, studying his reflection with clinical detachment.

He'd chosen the dress carefully. White silk that fell to his ankles, delicate lace at the collar, and beneath it, the lingerie—sheer, impractical, the kind of thing his mother had once said was necessary for a pure-blood wife. He'd prepared for this moment, rehearsed every word and gesture, because that's what Malfoys did. They performed.

When the door opened, Draco turned, smile ready.

Ron stopped in the doorway, tie undone, shirt untucked. He looked at Draco—properly looked, gaze traveling from the dress to the lingerie peeking through the fabric—and something flickered in his eyes. Disgust. Pity. Maybe both.

"I can't do this," Ron said.

He didn't wait for a response. He moved to the far side of the room, pulled off his robes with rough, angry movements, and climbed into bed with his back to Draco. The sheets rustled as he settled, and then there was only the sound of his breathing, deliberately even.

Draco stood frozen for a long moment. The fire crackled. The serpents seemed to hiss from the mantle. He pulled the dress off with hands that didn't shake, folded it carefully, laid it on the chair. Then he climbed into bed beside his husband, leaving a careful distance between their bodies, and stared at the ceiling until dawn broke through the curtains.

---

The pregnancy revealed itself a month later, a subtle shift in Draco's magic that he recognized before any potion could confirm it. He'd grown up surrounded by the signs, had watched his mother's belly swell with the promise of a Malfoy heir. Now, it was his turn.

He told Ron over breakfast. The kitchen at the manor was vast and cold, marble floors echoing with every step. Draco had learned to cook in the past month—simple things, eggs and toast and tea—because the house-elves had been dismissed after the war, and Ron refused to hire new ones.

"I'm pregnant," Draco said.

Ron paused, a forkful of egg halfway to his mouth. He set it down slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Right." Ron picked up the fork again, took a bite, chewed. "We'll deal with it when it comes."

That was all. He finished his breakfast, left the plate in the sink, and apparated to work without another word. Draco stood alone in the kitchen, one hand pressed to his stomach, and wondered if the child would feel the cold even in the womb.

---

The weeks passed in a haze of routine. Draco learned the manor's rhythms—which floorboards creaked, which windows rattled in the wind, which rooms held the ghost of his mother's lavender perfume. He cooked and cleaned and ironed Ron's robes, because that's what a wife did, even if the word tasted like ash.

Ron worked late at the Ministry, returning with the smell of firewhisky on his breath and a distance in his eyes. There were whispers, of course. Draco heard them from the portraits, from the owls that delivered the Daily Prophet. Ron Weasley seen with a secretary at the Leaky Cauldron. Ron Weasley photographed at a Ministry gala with his arm around a witch from Magical Law Enforcement.

Draco said nothing. He'd been trained for this—for the affairs, the dismissals, the slow erosion of everything that made him feel real. His mother had endured it with grace, and so would he.

But the bruises were harder to hide.

The first time Ron threw something, it was an accident. That's what Draco told himself as he knelt on the kitchen floor, picking shards of glass from the puddle of wine. Ron had asked for a red, and Draco had brought a white—a simple mistake, a misreading of the label—and Ron's temper had flared before he could stop it.

"Are you blind?" Ron had shouted, and the bottle left his hand before Draco could flinch.

It missed his head by inches. The glass exploded against the wall, spraying wine across the white cabinets. Draco stood still as the red dripped down his face—no, not wine. Blood. A shard had caught his forehead, just above his eye.

He didn't cry. He found a dishcloth, pressed it to the wound, and began cleaning up the mess. Ron watched from the doorway, chest heaving, hands trembling. He didn't apologize. He turned and walked to the living room, where the fire was lit and the whiskey was waiting.

Draco worked in silence, wiping blood from the floor, sweeping glass into a dustpan. The cut would scar, he knew. Another mark on a body that was no longer his own.

---

The second time was worse.

It had been a week of silences, of doors slamming, of Ron coming home later and drunker. Draco had learned to read the signs—the heaviness of his footsteps, the clench of his jaw, the way his magic crackled in the air like static. On this night, Ron was already in a rage before he walked through the door.

"You've been spending money again," Ron said, throwing a Gringotts statement onto the table. "New robes. Ingredients for potions. What do you need all this for?"

"For the baby," Draco said quietly. "The Healer said—"

"I don't care what the Healer said." Ron's voice rose, his face reddening. "You think money grows on trees? You think I work eighteen-hour days so you can buy yourself pretty things?"

Draco opened his mouth to respond, and Ron moved.

The slap was open-handed, hard enough to snap Draco's head to the side. He stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the table, and before he could recover, Ron's hands were around his throat, shoving him against the wall.

"You're nothing," Ron hissed, his face inches from Draco's. "Nothing without me. You understand?"

Draco's vision swam. He clawed at Ron's hands, but his strength was nothing compared to the rage that fueled them. The edges of his sight went dark, and he thought, dimly, that this was how it would end. In a cold manor, at the hands of a husband who hated him.

The door flew open.

"What the bloody hell, Ron?"

Fred Weasley stood in the doorway, face pale, wand raised. Behind him, George's expression shifted from shock to horror as he took in the scene—Ron's hands around Draco's throat, Draco's face purple, his feet barely touching the ground.

"Step away from him. Now," George said, his voice low and dangerous.

Ron released Draco like he'd been burned. Draco crumpled to the floor, gasping, his hands going to his throat. The twins moved as one, Fred helping Draco to his feet while George positioned himself between Ron and the door.

"Ron," Fred said, his voice shaking, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

Ron looked at his hands. They were still curled into fists, still trembling. He looked at Draco, who was cowering behind Fred, and something cracked in his expression.

"I didn't—I didn't mean—"

"Get out," George said. "Now."

Ron fled. The sound of his footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by the crack of apparition. Fred and George helped Draco to the sofa, their hands gentle, their eyes full of a pity that made Draco's stomach turn.

"We're telling Mum," George said.

"No." Draco's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Please. It'll only make things worse."

Fred looked at George. George looked at Fred. They didn't argue, but they didn't promise anything either. They stayed until Draco stopped shaking, until the tea they made was cold in his hands, and then they left, promising to return in the morning.

Draco sat alone in the living room, the fire dying, and touched his throat. The bruises would bloom purple by morning. He'd need to charm them away before the Healer's appointment.

He had learned to conceal bruises. A skill he'd never wanted, but he'd inherited it from his mother, along with the silence and the grace.

---

Ron came back three days later.

He appeared in the doorway of the library, where Draco was reading, a bouquet of lilies crushed in his hands. His eyes were red, his shirt untucked, and he smelled like he hadn't bathed in days.

"I'm sorry," Ron said.

Draco closed his book. He didn't stand. He didn't speak. He simply waited, as he'd been taught to wait.

Ron crossed the room, dropped the bouquet into Draco's lap, and knelt before him. The gesture was so unexpected, so theatrical, that Draco almost laughed. Almost.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Ron said, his voice cracking. "I don't know what came over me. I've been so angry, so—I hate myself, Draco. I hate what I've become."

Draco looked at the lilies. They were beautiful, white and perfect, a classic apology. He wanted to accept them. He wanted to believe this was a turning point, that Ron would change, that the violence was an aberration, not a pattern.

But when Ron reached out to touch his face, Draco flinched.

It was instinct. A tiny movement, barely perceptible, but Ron saw it. His hand froze mid-air, and his face went pale. He stared at Draco with a dawning horror that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with recognition.

"Merlin," Ron whispered. "You're afraid of me."

Draco said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

Ron's eyes filled with tears. He pulled his hand back, looked at it as if it belonged to a stranger, and then he saw it. He saw what he'd become. The sneer, the coldness, the casual cruelty. He'd spent his childhood hating Lucius Malfoy, had fought a war against that kind of tyranny, and now he was standing in Lucius's manor, wearing Lucius's son's fear like a crown.

"Your father," Ron said, his voice hollow. "I'm turning into your father."

Draco's control broke. A single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek. "No," he said. "You're worse. My father never pretended to be a good man."

---

A week passed. Ron slept in a guest room. Draco moved through the manor like a ghost, preparing meals he didn't eat, reading books he didn't remember. Fred and George visited every day, their presence a silent warning. Ron kept his distance, his guilt a palpable thing that filled every room.

Then Lucius Malfoy arrived.

Draco heard the floo activate in the foyer, heard the smooth voice that had haunted his childhood. He set down the dish he was washing and walked to the doorway, his heart pounding.

Lucius stood in the center of the foyer, cane in hand, robes impeccable. He looked older than Draco remembered—the war had aged him, taken the arrogance and left only the cold. But when his eyes found Draco's bruised throat, something flickered in their depths. Something dangerous.

"What has he done?" Lucius asked.

Before Draco could answer, Ron appeared in the doorway of the living room, a glass of firewhisky in his hand. He saw Lucius, and his face went dark.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to check on my son," Lucius said, his voice silk over steel. "I see I was right to."

The tension in the room was a living thing. Draco took a step forward, meaning to defuse the situation, but Ron moved first. His hand went to the bottle of wine he'd been drinking—a cheap bottle, the wrong bottle—and in a flash of rage, he hurled it at Draco's head.

Time slowed.

Draco saw the bottle spinning toward him, saw the red liquid trailing through the air like blood. He heard Lucius cry out, felt hands grab him, spin him, push him out of the way. And then the bottle hit something—not his face, but the marble pillar beside him, shattering into a thousand glittering shards.

Draco opened his eyes. Lucius was in front of him, arms wrapped around Draco, his body a shield. A thin line of blood trickled down his cheek where a shard had caught him, but he was otherwise unharmed.

The room went silent.

Lucius straightened, his grip on his cane tightening until his knuckles went white. He turned to face Ron, and for the first time in years, Draco saw his father's face contort with an emotion that wasn't coldness or contempt.

It was fury.

"You dare," Lucius said, his voice low and trembling. "You dare raise a hand to a Malfoy? To my son? To the mother of my grandchild?"

Ron's face had gone white. The glass in his hand slipped, crashing to the floor. "I didn't—I wasn't—"

"You were throwing a bottle at his head," Lucius said. "In my home. While he is pregnant with your child."

He took a step forward, and Ron stepped back. Lucius was older, smaller, but in that moment, he was the most dangerous man in the room.

"Listen to me, Weasley," Lucius said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I could end this marriage today. I could drag you through every court in the wizarding world. I could ruin your family—your precious, impoverished family—with a single word. And I would enjoy it."

Ron's breath caught. Tears were streaming down his face now, silent and ugly.

"But I won't," Lucius said. "Because my son has asked me not to. Because he believes, foolishly, that you can change." He paused, his eyes boring into Ron's. "But if you ever—ever—touch him again, I will destroy you. And I will do it so thoroughly that the name Weasley will be a curse on the lips of every witch and wizard in Britain."

He turned back to Draco, his expression softening into something Draco had never seen before. Concern. Love. Fear.

"Come," Lucius said, taking Draco's arm. "You're coming home with me. You're not staying in this house another night."

Draco shook his head. "No. I can't run from this."

"You can."

"I won't."

Lucius stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed, a sound that carried the weight of decades of mistakes.

"Then I will stay," he said. "And I will ensure that he keeps his distance."

---

The confrontation broke something in Ron.

He sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by broken glass and spilled wine, and he cried. Not the angry tears of a man who wanted forgiveness, but the hopeless tears of a man who'd seen himself clearly for the first time.

"I'm a monster," Ron said, his voice raw. "I'm no better than him—than your father. I'm exactly what I swore I'd never be."

Draco stood in the doorway, his hand on his stomach. The baby stirred, a flutter of movement that felt like hope and terror all at once.

"You're not," Draco said quietly. "You can still choose to be different."

Ron looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "How? How do I fix this?"

Draco hesitated. The words his mother had never said to his father hovered on his lips. "You start by admitting what you've done. And then you get help."

Ron nodded, slowly, like a man waking from a long nightmare. "I'll see a Mind Healer. I'll do whatever it takes."

"And you'll let me go," Draco said. "Not leave you. But have a life of my own."

Ron flinched, but he nodded again. "Whatever you need."

The silence stretched between them, fragile as glass. Draco moved to the window, looking out at the grounds of the manor that had become a prison. The snow was falling, blanketing the world in white, covering the scars of the past.

"I don't forgive you," Draco said. "Not yet."

"I know."

"But I'm willing to try."

He turned back to Ron, who was still on the floor, still broken, still watching him with eyes that held no anger. For the first time since the wedding, Draco saw something familiar in them. Not the hatred he'd expected, but the boy Ron had been—the one who fought for what was right, who stood against darkness even when it cost him everything.

Maybe that boy was still in there. Maybe they could find him together.

---

Six months later, the nursery was finished.

Draco stood in the doorway, watching the morning light filter through the enchanted curtains. The crib was mahogany, carved with stars and moons. The walls were pale blue, the bedding soft white. It was perfect.

Ron appeared beside him, a cup of tea in each hand. He passed one to Draco, their fingers brushing. The touch was tentative, careful, but it didn't make Draco flinch.

"It looks good," Ron said.

"It does."

They stood in silence for a moment, the baby kicking gently against Draco's ribs. The mediation sessions had been hard—ugly confessions and awkward silences and tears that felt like healing. But slowly, painfully, they were learning. Not to love each other, not yet, but to see each other as human.

"Three more weeks," Ron said.

"Three more weeks."

Ron reached out, his hand hovering just above Draco's belly. "May I?"

Draco nodded.

Ron pressed his palm gently against the swell, and the baby kicked, right where his hand rested. Ron's breath caught, and when he looked up, his eyes were wet.

"I'm sorry," Ron said. "For everything. I'm so sorry."

Draco placed his hand over Ron's. It wasn't forgiveness, not fully. But it was a start.

"I know."

They stood together in the nursery, two broken people holding onto the hope that they could become something better. The snow fell outside, soft and silent, covering the world in a fresh white shroud. And for the first time in a long time, the manor felt less like a prison and more like a home.