A/N: Hey kids! So yes, I know that I said this would be a oneshot, but I lied. Basically what we're gonna do here is skip all the way back to when Draco and Harry first started dating and continue with little bits of important parts of their life - i.e., their wedding, the adoption of Rose, etc. Because the first chapter makes it pretty obvious how the story ends, I'm keeping this marked as complete. I may end up going past the events of the first chapter and talk more about Rose and Draco as she grows up, but we'll see how far I can end up taking this. Without further ado, the second chapter.
The door of the small coffee shop dinged again, but the young blond sitting in the corner didn't look up, his eyes continuing to devour the text in front of him as he made hasty notes in a small, battered notebook.
He didn't look up when a strong, assertive voice ordered a latte - soy milk, one sugar - and he didn't look up when that same voice told the barista to keep the change - six pounds, he'd paid with a tenner - and he didn't look up when that damned voice made small talk about the weather - 19 degrees and sunny - while he waited for his drink.
He did look up, however, when the chair across from him was pulled back noiselessly - an impressive feat - and the voice rumbled, "Hello, Malfoy".
Very slowly, the blond raised his head, his pale hand gripping his pen tightly, his face ashen, and his horn-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose, slightly askew.
"It would be a shame if that broke," the man said softly, gesturing slightly.
"What?" the blond breathed.
"The pen," the man answered, with marked amusement.
The blond looked down again with clear discomfort. The man slowly reached across the table and gently lifted the blond's chin, drawing away only when the smaller man flinched, pain and fear apparent in his stormy-grey eyes.
"Sorry," the man murmured, looking down briefly before taking a sip of his drink.
Unbidden, an incredulous huff of laughter burst out of the blond as he cast a fleeting glance at the man across from him, scarcely long enough to observe the flash of anger that took over his beautiful face.
"Right," the man cleared his throat, "I'll just get out of your hair then."
There was a moment of pause before the chair left the table again, almost as though the man was waiting for the blond to look up at him.
He didn't.
A moment later, the door swung open, the bell dinging merrily.
And in the corner, the blond still sat, with his notes and his text, the pen lay forgotten.
Resting on the table, in between the two chairs, was a small slip of parchment with a single line of writing in a swirling script.
263 Hoxton Street.