My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy.

I am thirty-six years old today. I suppose that makes me middle-aged—four years till forty, and all that. In some ways don't feel very old—I don't look very old, or I don't think so. My wife says my hairline is receding and my son complains that I'm not as strong as I used to be, because I used to be able to carry him around in my arms and now I can barely give him piggy-back rides. But Astoria found a grey hair recently and may be wishing to spread the agony, and Scorpius doesn't take into account the fact that a boy of eight weighs significantly more than a boy of four. He maintains, half-jokingly, that he isn't growing; I (and the world with me, I suppose) are merely shrinking.

In other ways, however, I am amazed that I am only thirty-six. I have had years of my life that felt like centuries, and I don't just mean Astoria's pregnancy, which I'm certain lasted more than a year despite her assertion that Scorpius was slightly premature. The worst year was probably when I was sixteen. I spent most of that year trying to kill an old man—a really decent old chap—in order to save my father's life. I don't think I slept that year either, except during History of Magic classes, because everyone sleeps during history of magic classes except Hermione.

...Hermione.

Hermione Weasley, now; married something like fifteen years—I think she even has a couple of children—but in my mind she's always fifteen and Hermione Granger. I hated her from the day I met her until the day she hit me in the face and I had to be impressed despite myself. Of course I went on hating her even after that—I had to—she was a "mudblood", and friends with Potter besides. But for a long time whenever I thought about falling in love I thought about Hermione Granger. I used to pretend sometimes that she had been adopted, and that her real parents were purebloods.

I never seriously looked at another girl, any other girl, that way, until Astoria. I first noticed her at the Battle of Hogwarts, when she tripped over a dead body and fell into my arms, throwing me off-balance and causing a stray curse to fly over my head instead of hitting me. At first I had no idea what she was doing there, because she wore a green Slytherin tie and the Slytherins had been escorted away before the battle; it turned out she had sneaked back to help.

"Help whom?" I asked.

"Petrificus Totalus," she replied, pointing her wand at me, and proceeded to save George Weasley's life.

Very romantic.

When my parents found me, they hastily undid the jinx and made sure I was all right. I had never seen my father cry before, even in that horrible year when the Dark Lord was living at our house, but he sobbed when I stood up and almost crushed my breath out with hugging me.

Astoria came up after the battle and apologised, with a little curtsey, for jinxing me. She said that she and Dennis Creevey, a Muggle-born in her year, had become very good friends. She hated to think that someone would try and hurt him. When she found out that he was going to be at the Battle, she'd slipped away from the Slytherins being escorted out and come back to fight.

I wasn't sure what to think about that.

Then it was four years later and I was still having nightmares every night but I tried to pretend like none of that war had ever happened. I'd thought about moving out, I'd thought about travelling, I'd thought about getting a job. I'd thought about a lot of things. Somehow I hadn't thought about Hermione Granger much. Until my mother told me one day that she thought it was time I thought about getting married, and my first thought was of that little Muggle-born in her blue robes with her hair twisted up and her cheeks flushed pink, and the way she always knew the answer to any question, and how she could pack a punch in those skinny little arms. It all came over me in a rush and I had to go for a walk to think.

I thought for a long time. My parents couldn't really disinherit me, not in the current climate. There would be a scandal if they did. They might even pretend to like her, the way they wanted me to pretend I liked Potter. She probably still hated me, but I could be as charming as the next bloke, and maybe, in time…

I went to London. I knew Potter lived somewhere in Grimmauld Place, so I walked down the row of houses until I saw that the numbers went from 11 to 13. I sent off red sparks and sat down on a park bench across the street to wait. I only waited about five minutes.

"Malfoy?" He appeared suddenly and crossed the street to me. Same old glasses, same old scar, same old Potter. I felt a twinge of the same old irritation.

"Potter," I said, standing up.

"You know this street is full of Muggles. One of them might have seen you."

"It's the middle of the night."

"What made you think I'd see you?"

"Because you just got married. You're not going to be asleep yet."

He looked annoyed and embarrassed. "What do you want?"

"To ask you where Granger lives."

"Sorry?"

"Granger. Hermione Granger."

"Why on earth should you want to know that?"

"None of your business."

"Well, you're the one asking."

"How else am I supposed to find out?"

"Why don't you look her up in the book?"

"What book?"

"Don't wizards have directories?"

"Just the pureblood directory. She wouldn't be in that."

"You lot, honestly."

"So tell me where she is."

"Why? Do you need her professional services? All you have to do to liberate a house-elf is give him a hat, you know."

"I want to get married."

"And?"

"And…I want Granger."

"For what?"

I glared at Potter, irritated. "I told you. To get married."

"Just because she works for the government doesn't make her a registrar."

"How thick can you be? I want to marry her!"

He stared at me, open-mouthed.

"Er…maybe you've been obliviated or something, Malfoy," he said eventually, "but Hermione is a Muggle-born."

"I know."

"Er…you hate Muggle-borns."

I shrugged. "Not anymore."

"What? That's it? 'Not anymore'? Are you, Draco Malfoy, being rebellious?"

"No, I just want to marry Granger," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I…like her."

"Since when?"

"Since third year."

"Was that before or after the Tooth-Growing Spell?"

"I couldn't let her know. Or anyone."

"Mm. So you made her life miserable. Heartwarming."

"I want to make it up to her. But I can't do that unless you tell me where she is."

He gave me a long look and then sat down on the bench. "Well, it's no good, anyway," he said.

"Why?"

"Because Ron just asked her to marry him, and she said yes. They want to keep it quiet for a bit, to give the Prophet time to cool down after me and Ginny, but they're…well…you haven't got a chance, Malfoy. You've always been awful to her and she and Ron are crazy about each other."

Granger and Weasley.

I must have stood there for ages, looking (and feeling) very foolish.

Finally, I said, "You won't tell her about this?"

"Of course not."

"Somehow I don't think I'll be invited to that wedding."

"I notice you never responded to our invitation."

"I thought you only invited me to be polite."

"You were right."

We looked at each other for another minute, and then I Apparated home.

I never told anyone. When I saw the announcement of their engagement in the Prophet, I drank a glass of Firewhiskey and went to bed early.

But it didn't hurt, much. I realised that I had never really loved her; it had been more of a crush. Maybe Potter was right and it was partially just rebellion—though never consciously.

Mother didn't know about any of this. She started arranging little parties and inviting girls. She started having the girls' mothers arrange little parties and invite me. It was at one of these latter that I saw Astoria again.

I'm fairly certain the purpose of this particular soiree was the eventual mating of Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass. Daphne and I were classmates at Hogwarts; she was the tall, pale, willowy type, with ash-blonde hair and heavy-lidded brown eyes. If she ever looked at me it was because I was standing between her and Blaise Zabini, who spent this particular party lurking in a corner darting furious looks at me. I remembered that his mother had seven rich husbands die in mysterious circumstances, and I didn't eat any of the food.

Mrs Greengrass, probably under orders from my mother, managed to force me to dance with Daphne exactly once. Daphne either couldn't or wouldn't follow my lead, though, and we ended up stumbling around like idiots, she looking at the floor and I at the clock. Occasionally I would try to make some kind of remark, but she usually gave me one-word answers or else just withering looks.

About ten agonising minutes in, I heard a soft pop and looked up. A girl in an old Arrows jersey and tracksuit bottoms had apparated into the middle of the room and stood frozen, a SpelMart bag in one hand and a half-eaten hamburger in the other. She looked shocked to find herself among dress robes and champagne. Daphne, on the other hand, brightened.

"Stori!" she said. "Stori, you know Draco, don't you? Why don't you finish this dance with him, I have to powder my nose."

Stori glanced at me in something between amusement and terror. "Er, I'm not really dressed for…"

"I don't mind," I said. She had to be a better dancer than Daphne; there was no way she could be worse.

She shot her sister a despairing look. "Was I supposed to know we were having a pa…?"

"I'll take your things," said Daphne, grabbing the bag and hamburger and practically running out of the room in a whirl of green silk.

The other girl shrugged and took my proffered hand.

"I didn't think I was that bad," I said, a little offended.

"Poor Daph," the girl said. "Mother doesn't like her boyfriend and keeps trying to pair her off. You're her last hope."

"What's wrong with Blaise?"

"I think Mother's afraid he'll poison her and run off with her money." Stori shrugged and twirled in my arms. She was surprisingly graceful for someone in trainers.

"I'm more afraid that he'll poison me and run off with Daphne," I said. "Actually, I'm just afraid of the poisoning part."

"You don't care for Daph?"

I shrugged. "She's all right. I'd be more inclined to be interested if she paid me a modicum of attention."

"You're the type to want a girl's undivided adoration."

"I'm the type to not want a girl's undivided boredom."

She laughed.

"I'm sorry," I said when the dance was over; "I didn't get your name."

She looked surprised. "You don't remember me? We met…"

"…at the Battle of Hogwarts, yes, I know. But I didn't get your name then either. You put me in a Full-Body Bind and went off to fight Death Eaters, as I recall. Not exactly much of an introduction. I gather you're Daphne's sister?"

"Yes. Astoria Greengrass."

I looked her over. She didn't look anything like her sister; she was short, with dark skin and hair, and she had a smile as dazzling as Lumos Maxima. And the Quidditch jersey she wore set off her brilliant blue eyes.

She left after swiping a flute of champagne and a handful of biscuits from the refreshment table, and I didn't see her again that evening. That night, though, instead of a nightmare, I dreamed I was dancing with a dark-haired girl in blue.

I ran into her at several more parties after that. She was usually a little more appropriately dressed, although once at a morning party Mr Greengrass was giving she stumbled down the stairs, clearly hungover, in boxer shorts and a very large T-shirt. She blinked at the assembled crowd, grabbed a plateful of hors d'oeuvres, and stumbled back up the stairs. I got the impression there was a communication gap of some sort in the Greengrass home.

When she wasn't hungover, her sister frequently made her my escort for the evening so Daphne and Blaise could sneak off together. Somehow our mothers didn't catch on—like when I actually received an invitation to the Granger-Weasley wedding, plus one.

"Why don't you ask Daphne to go?" my mother asked when she saw it. (That shows just how much she wanted me to get married; she didn't even mention the words "blood-traitor" or "mudblood".)

I didn't want to hurt Mother's feelings, so I didn't say anything snide, but I didn't invite Daphne either. I certainly didn't expect her to go and invite Daphne for me, nor for Daphne to turn up at the Manor a week later and ask if she could talk to me.

"Keep it down," I said. "My parents are in the next room and I don't want their hopes up."

"Listen, you're not in love with me, are you?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Not as far as I know."

"Good. Because Blaise and I are going to elope."

"Oh, really? Er…have fun. You, er…know how to cast Toxis Revelio, right? And I recommend Pippin's for bezoars."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. But listen, Malfoy, why invite me to some Muggle wedding if you don't care about me? And you keep coming to those daft parties."

"I didn't invite you to…oh. That would be Mother."

"Oh." We shared an eye-roll at the vagaries of mothers. "Well, I already sent you a polite negation. Hey, listen, could you do me a favour?"

"Depends on what it is."

"Go out with Stori for a while. That's Astoria, my sister. Make it look like you're going out for real, draw attention to it. My parents might not come down so hard on me if Stori's with someone totally respectable and boring. No offence."

"Your parents disapprove of Blaise because his mother may or may not have killed seven people but they're all right with a literal ex-Death Eater?"

"They're very conservative."

I did have a plus-one to the wedding, and I'd dreamed about Astoria several times after meeting her at parties. I liked having dreams instead of nightmares, so for that reason, if nothing else, I sent her an owl inviting her.

She turned up at the Manor in much the same way her sister had, and, like her sister, asked to talk to me. Unlike her sister, who had arrived in a smart suit and hat with netting on it, she wore her old Arrows jersey and some kind of blue trousers, with boots.

"Well, my parents just went out for the evening, so I guess so."

"I know. I sent them the Celestina Warbeck tickets."

I grinned. "Come on in, have a drink."

"No thanks. Did Daph put you up to it?"

"Put me up to what?"

"Asking me to the wedding? Or was that your mother's idea? Did she finally get tired of trying to mate you and Daph?"

"Er…well, your sister did mention…"

"Thought so. Well, if that's all it is, then sure, I'll go. I like Hermione, she tutored me when I was a fifth year."

"You, er, wouldn't go, if that wasn't all it was?"

"Isn't it?"

"I don't know. I kind of like you, I mean, I don't know you very well…"

"Listen, Draco, you're cute and all, but I'm not into the whole killing Muggles scene."

"Neither am I," I said. "Anymore."

"Right, well, I don't come into any money, either. My parents are leaving it to Daph."

"I don't need money."

"That's another thing. You kind of assume you're going to be wealthy and respected all your life and that stuff is just going to be handed to you. You're not a Slytherin, you're just an aristocrat."

"I beg your pardon?"

She shrugged. "Never mind. I'll see you at the wedding. I won't wear trainers this time."

"Why not?"

She stopped in the act of wrapping her cloak around herself to Apparate away. "What?"

"Er…nothing."

I had liked the trainers, just like I liked that jersey. I'd never seen a girl wear trainers and a Quidditch jersey to a party before. Or boxer shorts and men's socks. She never looked quite natural in dress robes and jewellery, except this one blue sundress I'd seen her in a couple times. (She still has it. She insists that one day she's going to fit into it again.)

We went to the wedding. She must've been wearing a long dress because it wasn't until after the ceremony, when she and I made our way down some stairs, that I noticed her feet. I don't generally look at people's feet, I mean, they're feet. But she wore trainers. When she saw me looking at them, she grinned.

"Not going to make a habit of it or anything," she said. "But a first faux date is an important occasion."

We had a lot of faux dates after that, though, and as often as not she would wear trainers at least. Sometimes, instead of a wrap, she would bring her jersey. I started teasing her about them, and she started saying they were surprisingly comfortable and she never would have thought of them. Neither would I, I said, and on our next date I showed up in trainers as well.

Our mothers finally got the message that Daphne and I weren't interested in each other; she moved in with Blaise and I went on seeing Astoria. Even after Daph's parents had accepted that their son-in-law was probably not going to poison their daughter, I went on seeing Astoria. By the time the first baby Zabini had been born, I was falling in love with Astoria.

I loved falling in love with Astoria Greengrass. She was pretty and brave and unconventional. My parents loved her, her parents loved me. She liked Quidditch even more than I did and was at home in any situation. And I loved having dreams instead of nightmares.

One problem: to her, I wasn't Draco Malfoy, rich, clever, handsome pureblood. To her, I was Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and current momma's boy. She was nice to me but I think she also thought I was stupid because she used to make these little digs, the kind you would make just for the satisfaction of other people not getting them, about things like rich people who didn't think they had to do anything with their lives, and pureblood supremacy, and grown-ups living with their parents.

"Do you want me to get a job?" I asked her once. I think I was slightly tipsy.

She looked at me. "Yeah," she said.

So I did. I went to the Ministry of Magic and applied for a position as a clerk. My father was horrified.

"You can do so much better than that, Draco!" he said.

"I have to start somewhere, Dad," I said. "Maybe one day I'll be a Hogwarts governor, like you were." Only I won't lose the job through stupidity and racism, I thought, but I didn't say anything. He was still my father.

With my first paycheck, I rented a room over the Leaky Cauldron and invited Astoria to come see it. She turned up in trainers, those blue trousers—jeans, she called them—and the Arrows jersey.

"It's not what you're used to, is it?" she said, grinning.

"Do you actually support the Arrows?" I asked. "Or do you just wear that jersey because it brings out your eyes?"

She glanced at me. "Maybe you're not as stupid as I thought, Malfoy," she said. "I like the Cannons. I guess I have a thing for the underdog. But bright orange—not my colour."

"I'm not stupid at all," I said. "I'm just rich."

"And because you're rich and pureblooded you think you don't have to do anything about anything. You have no idea about real life."

Real life. Something I never wanted to experience again.

"You think I'm sheltered."

"Well, in so many words. You've always had everything handed to you. Have you ever known one real moment of discomfort or unhappiness, Draco?"

Sheltered.

I looked at her and suddenly a burning desire swept over me to tell her everything. I had never told anyone, not even my parents who were there for most of it, everything. But I felt like I had to tell her.

"I used to lie awake at night and listen to the screams of the people Voldemort was keeping in our basement," I said. "I tortured a man because if I didn't Voldemort was going to torture me; I saw his blood, he was my father's friend, I used to like him, and I tortured him. I almost killed Dumbledore, you know. Snape did it for me, to protect me, but I had to live with that. I spent a year convinced that I and my family were going to die, I spent a year dreaming about hearing my mother scream, I spent a year imagining my father losing his soul to Dementors, I've seen people who've been given the Kiss, I've seen people walking around without anything behind their eyes, like…like…like corpses, like Inferii. I've seen Inferii too, with rotting flesh dripping off their arms and guts spilling out of their stomachs but still they march on and you can't stop them except by setting them on fire and hearing their screams and you know they're already dead but they still sound like humans screaming and sometimes they still come after you, on fire, screaming. I used to dream about my father becoming like that. For years, I dreamed about it, and then…"

"And then…?"

I shrugged. "I found something else to dream about."

"Do you still have those dreams, ever?" she asked. She sounded softer, somehow. She reached out and touched my arm.

"Sometimes. I'll probably have one tonight. Whenever I think about Dementors or anything relating to those days it just all comes rushing back."

"Does anything help?"

"You, sometimes."

"Me?"

"If I can dream about you."

She looked uncomfortable. "You…you should have something else. Can you cast a Patronus?"

"No."

"Learn."

"Teach me."

She did. She showed me hers first—a butterfly. "Tiny, but powerful," she said. Then she taught me; it took a long time.

Mine was a ferret the first couple times. I shuddered. It reminded me too much of that awful few minutes I had as a confused ferret bouncing up and down with all the laughter ringing in my ears, just sounding like noise, until McGonagall rescued me.

Then one day I was doing something wrong and she guided my hand, coming right up close to me. I felt my body reacting, the way it had almost ten years before on the night of the Yule Ball when I saw Granger. It had happened since then but never quite so strongly.

That day the Patronus came out as a butterfly. It was stronger than my ferret and lasted a lot longer. It fluttered around the room and landed on Astoria's nose, opening and closing its wings. She began to cry.

"Draco…"

I dispelled the charm hastily. "Sorry," I said. "I think I stole your animal."

She hiccoughed and started to laugh. "Look," she said, casting hers. It was bigger than I remembered—longer, and sleeker, with little ears and a tail and four furry feet. A ferret.

"That's weird enough," I said. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Oh, you are stupid," she said. She grabbed my official Ministry of Magic Clerk's tie and hauled me toward her. I lost my balance and we fell onto the floor, me on top of her until she flipped me over and pressed her lips to mine. She kicked the door shut with her foot.

"Cast yours again," she said. It was easier than it had ever been, with her weight pressed against me and her lips on my jaw.

The butterfly and the ferret played together for about an hour.

Astoria still thinks I'm stupid. I don't live at the Leaky Cauldron any more, not since my promotion to Head of the department and my appointment as governor at Hogwarts. Scorpius will be going in a year or two, and one of Granger's kids.

I pointed her out to Scorpius the other day. "There's Rose Weasley," I said. "Say how do you do."

Scorpius looked awkward but he bowed to Rose as she passed. "How do you do, Miss Weasley," he said.

She gave him a long, serious look. "Hi," she said at last, before her dad quickly dragged her away with a perfunctory nod at me. Scorpius turned around and looked after her.

"Dad," he said, "she's pretty. And Rose is a pretty name. But Weasley's not pretty…Malfoy's pretty. Rose Malfoy. Can I marry her?"

"Wear a dragon hide when you ask her father," I replied.

It's my birthday today. I'm thirty-six. My father stopped by the office this morning, looked around, nodded, and gave me my presents—a watch from him, a book from my mother. He invited Astoria and me for dinner that evening.

But when I got home and went to check on Scorpius I found out that he had gone to spend the night with Robin, Stacy, and Alexis Zabini. (I think Blaise secretly wanted a daughter.) I went to my room to change and found the lights all dimmed and Astoria stretched out across the bed, wearing jeans, a very old Arrows jersey, and trainers. She lazily opened her eyes when she heard me come in.

"Happy birthday, Draco," she murmured.

I think it will be.