Disclaimer: J.K.Rowling is a marvelous woman. Kudos to her for coming up with such marvelous characters and plot.
Imperfect
Draco sighed as she settled her head on his shoulder, her long, curly chestnut hair falling on his bare chest. He looked up at the sky through the green curtain of leaves above. Thin white clouds floated through the sky, comforting him. The perfect blue skies that sometimes showed in summer unnerved him. They seemed unreal, too perfect. Nothing was ever perfect in life, and the blue skies that seemed to question that scared him. Otherwise he could just accept life, imperfect as it was, and be happy with the wonderful, but also imperfect woman in his arms.
After the night Dumbledore was killed, Draco had decided that the old man was right. He wasn't a killer. He didn't want the same life as his father. When the Golden Trio went off to find Voldemort, Draco had gone with them. He had told them about all the years of abuse he had suffered at the hands of his father, about the pressure placed on the only son of a pureblood family, about the fear Voldemort inspired. Harry had still almost killed him, but Draco couldn't blame him.
Draco smiled as his friend's breathing became calm and steady. How had she ever managed to forgive him? He had never asked any of them to forgive him, but she had.
When he had found their party, he hadn't asked them to forgive him. He didn't expect it. And they didn't surprise him. They only trusted him because they needed him. Because even perfect Potter couldn't find Voldemort on his own. It turned out that the boy-who-lived was just as imperfect as rest of the world. Somehow that thought had comforted Draco, even though it lessened their chances of succeeding.
But somewhere along the way, she had started to forgive him, as he hoped she would. He regretted insulting her all those years at school, but that had been before he realized the mistakes he had made in believing his father. He realized that he had always respected her, even admired her. She was smart, brave but not without fear, and good-looking in more of a pretty than beautiful way. But he didn't need a true beauty. She was wonderful in her imperfect way.
They had found Voldemort. Draco's father had revealed it while talking to Snape in Draco's hearing. Of course the older Malfoy hadn't known his son heard him. Draco had been hiding around a corner while the men had talked about the Death Eaters' hideout high in the French Alps. Draco had a suspicion that his professor had known the boy was eavesdropping, though. But then the man had his own reasons for keeping Draco's presence secret.
Severus Snape had died Voldemort when Potter failed, struck down by a stunning spell. The traitor whose true loyalty had never been certain finally declared it with two simple words. But Bellatrix had screamed Avada Kedavra right back at him, crying as her lord fell. The ex-Potions Master had crumpled with a relieved look of peace and triumph on his face.
But all that was over now. Their last year of Hogwarts had started the week after the Dark Lord's had been announced in the Daily Prophet. Minerva McGonagall had become the headmistress after Dumbledore's death. Remus Lupin had been reinstated as the DADA professor, though it was fairly certain that Potter would take his place when he graduated. Slughorn was replaced with a pretty woman who had turned out to be a school friend of one Lily Evans, despite coming from Slytherin.
So it had all worked out, in an imperfect way. Dumbledore was dead. Snape was dead. Voldemort was gone. Potter felt like a failure for falling before he managed to defeat his nemesis. Draco would never be able to forgive his father, or to truly feel comfortable with his mother.
But he liked it that way. Nothing was ever meant to be perfect. The world didn't work that way. And with Hermione in his arms, he didn't need perfection. Their happiness was wonderful. They were happy together as the spring developed and their time at school came to an end. For how could anyone want anything more than the peace and joy they had, sometimes sitting under their tree by the lake, sometimes laughing and talking in the Three Broomsticks? Those who went searching for perfection only ruined what they already had.
Perfection didn't exist, but what they had was imperfectly right.