Canary Creams and New Yellow Paint - (DRARRY)

Chapter Two

Despite Draco's best efforts, campaigning is not going well. The papers are having a field day with it, wringing every dirty detail of his past over Scorpius's head. He's been reading the Prophet religiously for the first time in decades, but Scorpius is forbidden to do so.

Of course, Scorpius hasn't listened. He's his father's son, after all. But at least he thinks he's being sneaky, so he hasn't demanded to speak with Draco about it yet.

Part of Draco thinks answering those questions would be too much to handle; the other part thinks Scorpius would take it harder than him. It's one thing to know that your father has made bad decisions, and another to see them aired out in exquisite detail (photographs inside!).

Draco made mistakes during the war. He's never pretended otherwise. But it's harder to accept what he did afterwards, once the imminent threat was gone. His father's principles still clung to his shoulders, steering Draco down a path that was so twisted he had no hope of not getting lost. There was nothing he wouldn't do to recover the comforts his early life had offered him. He'd made deals with former Death Eaters to help them flee the country, he'd sold off dark artefacts to anyone who wanted to buy them, and he'd turned away from any bit of light the world offered.

Until he met Astoria. If there was any such thing as falling in love with someone you could never properly want — the way a man should want his wife — he'd done that.

When all of his misdeeds had tied him up so tightly there seemed no way of getting out, she'd found a path through. Then she'd let him hide that knot from their son, even though Astoria loathed dishonesty more than anything else in the world. Now that the papers are pulling at the thread again, he can't stop worrying that Scorpius will turn away.

But he hasn't, not yet. Draco just has to pray that Scorpius's fiery determination to face their reputations head-on lasts beyond the campaign.

Astoria's mottled little eagle-owl has dropped off letters a few times now, asking how Astoria can get involved. Draco's never minded spending time around her, even during the first few awkward months after his coming out and their divorce, but he's not certain he wants her help.

It will be messier than you think, Draco had written her. They'll try to rip you apart.

I know that, she'd replied. I'm particularly good at dealing with messes. I married you, didn't I?

She had. Not only that, she'd married him when he was twenty, when he was an absolute prat. He could not imagine asking someone to make that kind of sacrifice. So Draco had followed Astoria's advice and ended up here, buying a copy of the Prophet on his lunch break to determine exactly how fucked he is.

Rita Skeeter had been at the Manor just a few days ago to interview Scorpius about his campaign announcement.

"And these," Draco had said, walking backwards as he showed Rita around the grounds, "are the famous Malfoy peafowl."

The largest of the peacocks had given her a sharp squawk as it strutted nearer, appraising Rita with a head tilt.

She'd been struggling to keep up, heels sinking into the dirt and low-hanging tree branches snapping in her face when she was too absorbed to notice them, but she'd straightened her clothes with a satisfied hum when he stopped walking.

"Well, aren't you a doll?" she'd said, leaning closer and holding out a hand to the nearest bird.

"I wouldn't," Scorpius had warned.

"They're rather territorial," Draco had added.

As if to prove his point, the bird had nipped her on the finger and spread out its feathered back in a grand show.