An Epilogue, some time later:
Harry and Draco are standing at the foot of the stairs leading into the Great Hall, and Harry is struck by the memory of something similar happening several years ago. Professor Sprout is standing at the top of the stairs, ushering the visitors in. The crowd shuffles restlessly and once again Harry feels overwhelmed by the number of people here. At the front of the crowd, he can see Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, who've been in hiding at Blaise's Italian summer home. Off to his left somewhere is Susan Bones, who talks loudly about her engagement to Justin Finch-Fletchley over the summer. Behind him, he can hear Rita Skeeter pestering people about their reaction to the death of Voldemort, and he smiles to Draco and squeezes his hand. Draco smiles back and the crowd begins to surge into the Hall.
Harry'd never imagined that he'd be able to see this day, and as he looks up at the teachers' table from his seat next to Draco, some of the faces are the same, but others are different. Professor Sprout rushes up the stairs to her position at the table, and her yellow hat wobbles precariously on her head when she sits down. Next to her is Professor Sinistra, but to her left is an empty chair to represent Madam Hooch, who's to be replaced with Charlie next week. Madam Hooch was not, contrary to rumor, killed in a flying attack on a Death Eater party, but Harry has it from a trustworthy source that she will be fully recovered from her fall during the summer staff game of Quidditch soon, and she has taken this opportunity to step down. On the other side of the empty chair is Professor Vector, who is talking to Professors Flitwick and Slughorn. At the other end of the table, Hagrid's chair is empty, and Harry swallows hard, his grip on Draco's hand tightening. Next to the empty chair is where the Divination teacher would sit if Firenze were able to sit—instead, the centaur has chosen not to be present today. Instead, Trelawney sits in the chair chatting with a few professors Harry's never met before. He assumes that they teach Ancient Runes or something, and turns his attention to the center of the table, where Dumbledore would have been.
Instead, Professor McGonagall stands in front of the Headmistress's chair, resplendent in a new set of tartan dress robes. She has a scarf of shimmery blue fabric around her neck that makes Harry's throat close around tears that he refuses to let out. Her eyes twinkle in a way that makes Harry smile as she talks to her Deputy Headmaster next to her. On his part, Professor Snape looks sullen at having his vacation at Draco's home in France ended, but secretly pleased to be back at Hogwarts. Snape's eyes glitter with what Harry can only imagine is malicious glee as he plans how to best strip Gryffindor of any house points it may earn this year. He almost pities the children, except that he knows it's a badge of character for a Hogwarts student to be able to say, "I dealt with Professor Snape and lived to tell the tale."
It has been a year since the final horcrux was destroyed, and almost five since Dumbledore's death. Harry feels lucky to have escaped by the skin of his teeth, and fortunate that so many of his friends—and people he considers his family—have survived. It still pains him to think about all of the people lost to the war between Cedric, who Harry counts as the first victim, to Theodore Nott, who'd snuck into Azkaban and shot his father with a Muggle pistol then turned it on himself only two months ago. He no longer blames himself for their deaths, but it doesn't make it hurt less knowing that there was nothing he could do to prevent them. All he can hope is that now, in the strangely calm days after the war, he will be able to heal.
Minerva's voice suddenly cuts through the crowd's noise as if they are still schoolchildren, and she smiles as she begins to speak.
"I'd like to thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to join us here today as we celebrate the fourth continuous reopening of the school and the end of the first full year since the end of the terrible reign of Voldemort. You will never know what it means to me to see so many of your happy faces here on this joyous day. I am truly grateful to you all for coming here today, to share this special, if bittersweet, day with us here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Thank you.
"Even now, the dark days that forced this school's doors to close seem but a distant memory. Many of you here today will always remember that year, when fear almost toppled the Wizarding World. We may have let the world grind to a halt, but we never stopped believing that it would be better one day. Despite terrible attacks on our homes, we continued to fight against tyranny, and oppression, and evil, and it is due to this determination—the determination of each one of you, who refused to let the darkness of those days snuff your bright souls—that brings us here today. It was each of you, who refused to let yourselves be pulled into the dark glory of corruption, and it was each of you, who fought against the claims he staked on your hearts, minds, and bodies. I am so proud of each and every one of you, just for being able to be here today because you persevered.
"I'd like to introduce to you now the Minister of Magic, Mr. Archibald Corbie, here to speak to you today…" Minerva's voice drifts off as the new Minister stands to speak. Harry's mind wanders over everything that has happened to him thus far, and everything that may happen in the future. He still has no idea what he wants to do with the rest of his life; for now he's content to play it by ear and do whatever strikes him at the time. He's got an interview with the Chudley Cannons tomorrow about the hole left when their Seeker had been killed by a ghastly hanging hex during the now infamous Cannons-Limeys game, when a group of rogue Death Eater supporters had broken into the game and tried to reenact the scene from the 1995 World Cup. The perpetrators were quickly arrested and sent to the new dragon-guarded Azkaban, but all it had taken was a single misfired spell to ruin the Cannons' winning streak and take them out of the season.
He isn't even sure he wants the job. He knows that Ron would stare at him in befuddled horror if he ever heard Harry saying that, but all Harry can think is that it would take him away from home a lot, and he and Draco would have to leave the comfortable little flat they've shared for four years. He may not be quite sure what he wants to do with himself now that he's finished the whole "savior of the world" thing is done, but he does know that their little flat is the closest thing to home he's ever felt. He's not sure what he'd do if one morning he woke up and he was somewhere else.
It's hard to believe that he's been with Draco for more than four years, too. Of all of the outcomes possible, Harry thinks that this is the least likely think to come out of the war. It's right up there with aliens landing and Snape smiling. Speaking of aliens, he reminds himself, Neville and Luna are expecting them to at least drop by before tea. Luna is pregnant and entirely too round to be heading out to events like these, but Neville likes to keep up with what is going on outside their little home near the remains of Ottery St. Catchpole. They've got Harry and Draco reporting on the reopening of Hogwarts' doors for the new year, Remus and Tonks reporting on the Ministry's memorial service for Rufus Scrimgeour, who was killed by an assailant brandishing a knife last month, and Ron has gone to the International Floo Center to wait for Hermione, who is coming in from school in India today.
Everyone has changed so much since school that Harry can hardly recognize them, even the ones he's been around since 1998. For instance, Hermione's been studying Eastern magic practices, and the last time she came in she was so completely bohemian that Draco'd half-joked about "hippie stink" for a week until she'd submitted to his not so subtle quest to bring her back to what he called her "good English roots." She's been seeing someone at school called Hrundi, and he hopes for Ron's sake that she has not brought him with her.
Ron, on the other hand, has begun work in the Ministry. He's seeing a young secretary in his office, and she's got longish blonde hair that's colored. She has a penchant for wearing short skirts and trying to flirt with him, and Draco's already threatened her to keep her "grubby paws to herself," he'd said. Harry can never remember her name—he thinks it's Carol or Cindy or whatever—and he feels uncomfortable around her, but Ron brings her everywhere, so he finds himself inviting Ron along less and less often.
Luna's never really got over the burning of Ottery St. Catchpole, but Neville seems to think that living near it's helping a lot. They're an odd couple, but they seem happy, and May was their first wedding anniversary. It had been a sad little wedding with only their friends there, but Luna glowed in her gown and Neville's grin was a mile wide if it was an inch. They're strangely suited to one another, and their children—twins—are expected any day now.
Remus and Tonks seem to be getting on okay without a million people crowding into number twelve with them. Tonks's job with Gringotts keeps them comfortably fed and she doesn't have nearly as many late nights as she did with the Ministry. Remus looks younger now, without the stresses of war pressing down on his shoulders, and he and Tonks have begun cleaning the house from top to bottom. They're planning to renovate at the end of winter, and Harry can barely wait to see what they do.
His biggest and most pleasant surprise has been Draco. Yes, he still acts like an ass from time to time, but he finds more often than not Draco uses cold words as a defense mechanism. His chances of being called a speccy freak decrease exponentially when he stops talking about Lucius, and now that he doesn't talk about Death Eaters, Draco almost never hides his glasses from him anymore. Draco's mean streak is still a mile wide, but he turns it toward other people instead of Harry. Like using it for good instead of evil, he'd commented to Draco once, and found earthworms in his boots the next morning.
Their life is comfortable and surprisingly domestic. Some days they spend tangled in the sheets on Harry's bed, and others they seem like roommates or good friends who snog a lot. Harry cooks breakfast and lunch, and Draco charms the dishes clean and picks where they'll have dinner. When they get back from eating, they'll kiss on the ratty old futon Harry insists on keeping, and some nights they'll go back to Harry's room together, but some nights they go to separate rooms. It's unorthodox, yes, but every now and then Draco just seems to want space, and that's okay with him. Sometimes he wants that space to be as small as possible and located between their bodies, and that's okay with him, too. The important thing is that the way things are work for now, and that's the only way he really wants them to be.
He is broken from his musings by the sound of clapping, and Draco smirks at him knowingly as he looks around the room, realizing that the Minister's speech is over. He claps distractedly as the people around them rise to a standing ovation. Draco grins mischievously and whispers, "Come on!" before tugging him through the crowd toward the door leading further into the castle. With everyone at the event, there is no one in the hall to watch as Draco leans against the wall, pulling Harry with him and into a kiss.
The kiss is warm and comfortable, and when it's done, he drops his head to Draco's jaw and trails kisses down his throat. Draco's moan vibrates against his ear and he reaches down to cup the erection forming between them. He slides his knee between Draco's thighs, and when he ruts against Harry's palm, Harry smirks and presses more firmly.
"Wait," Draco gasps, he turns them around to press Harry against the wall. He tugs impatiently at the buttons of Harry's dress robes, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. Finally, he gives up and just hikes Harry's robes up to his waist, fingers making quick work of the fly of the jeans Harry is wearing underneath them. He pauses, laughing quietly. "Ever heard of formal wear, Potter?" he asks, and Harry drags his fingertips up the front seam of the denim suggestively. He laughs, too, when Draco's eyes flood with lust.
"If you don't like what I'm wearing, Draco," Harry breathes against the shell of Draco's ear, "why don't you just take it off me?" A guttural groan escapes Draco's lips and their mouths meet again in a tangle of tongue and teeth. He thrusts his hand into Harry's pants, pulling at his cock and thrusting haphazardly against his leg. Little breathy whimpers escape him, but Harry grabs his wrists and carefully pulls his hand out of his pants. His cock follows for as long as Draco can hold it, springing energetically out as Harry pulls his hands up near his face. "I don't want to come yet," he explains to Draco's little moue of disappointment, and he nuzzles his face into the side of Draco's. "I still want you to fuck me," he says, and he can feel Draco's arms stiffen slightly.
Harry pats into the back pocket of his jeans, the real reason he wore them today. The tiny tube of lube is warm form being pressed against his thigh all day, and Draco's body visibly shudders when he presses it into his hand, letting his arms drop to his sides. Harry yanks his pants and trousers down, and his lifted robe makes him feel a little dirty as Draco opens his own trousers and pulls his pink cock out. He taps Harry on the shoulder so he will get down on his knees, and Harry watches through his knees as Draco prepares himself, slicking a handful of the lube down his shaft. Draco presses into him and it's uncomfortable as he slides in the first few inches, burning as he pulls out again, but Harry groans when he pushes in again. He feels Draco's cock pressing against his insides and his hand wrapping around his cock. It only takes a few pumps before Harry is coming, his eyes tightly closed and panting for breath. Draco follows soon after, and they both fall to the floor.
The cold stones press oddly into his chest and his nipples hurt from their icy touch. His back hurts a little from the arched position he's in—arse stuffed and thrown up in the air, back concave and his head resting on his arms. Draco's heavy, but he can't move to throw him off.
"Er, gerroff," Harry tells him, and Draco lazily pinches his side near his ribs.
"I like it here," Draco responds, letting his head drop to Harry's shoulder. He presses affectionate little kisses to the back of his neck, and Harry supposes it might be quite nice if he weren't on rough stone so chilled that it makes his bollocks want to try to crawl back into his body.
"You're heavy and there's come dripping down my leg," Harry informs him and Draco sighs, rolling off of him to lie on the stones beside him.
"Philistine," Draco accuses fondly. "Ouch. These stones are pointy. They don't feel pointy through your shoes, but they're pointy."
"My parents were of good British stock, I'll have you know," Harry smiles, sweeping a cleaning charm over them, followed by a mild warming charm. Draco puffs contented laughter into his shoulder.
"Gentlemen, if you're quite done," a voice interrupts their dozing. "There will be children here shortly. I recommend you hide at least the naughty bits and pretend you weren't skipping speeches that were being given by appointed Ministry officials to bugger each other in the hallway," Snape's voice is the closest Harry's ever heard it to friendly, and when he cracks open his eyes, the man is upside down, his mouth twitching with repressed laughter.
"Alright," Harry consents, if only to spare Snape the knowledge that his students probably understand more about sex—even the kind where Draco Malfoy gives it to him hot and dirty in the hallway outside the entrance to the dungeons—than he gives them credit for. Draco pouts at the loss of his pillow, and Harry helps him to his feet.
As they pull their clothing back on and smooth out the wrinkles in what they're already wearing, Snape continues, "You know, if someone had told me ten years ago that one day I would walk in on Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy having sex in the dungeons, I would have thought they were mad. I only wish you were still my students, so I could take points," he teases. "In fact, I have half a mind to take points from the next Gryffindor I see, just to punish you."
"You have half a mind, alright," Harry replies, laughing. He watches Draco zip his trousers, and even though he can still feel the stretch of his arse from Draco's cock, he's half hard again.
"Cheeky," Snape responds, and Draco laughs, too.
"You only wish you'd skipped the speeches, too," Draco's tone is sing-song as he kneels, re-buckling his boots.
"Not if this is the site I'd have had to greet me," Snape says ruefully, nodding toward the hall, where they can hear students rushing back to their rooms after the long summer months away. "Run while you can. If they catch you here, they'll make you teach the little bastards."
He and Draco are halfway to the shifting staircases when the children rush in, swarming around them. They are all hopelessly short, he realizes, and his eyes dart up to Draco's as he wonders, were we ever this small? A little boy—Harry gauges his age at about seven—trips and falls over the uneven stone floor, and when he hits the ground, he lets out a swear that would make a sailor blush.
"Effing stupid bloody stones," the boy mutters, and Harry is stunned to see him pick up the books he has dropped—books he distinctly remembers using in the third year.
"I'm getting bloody old, Draco," he says conversationally as they leave. People stare at them as they swing their joined hands between themselves, and Harry wonders if it's because they're Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy or if it's because Draco looks like Harry has just finished having his wicked, wicked way with him. He decides he doesn't care about that so much as he does the fact that he is hurtling toward old age at the speed of light.
"No, you're not," Draco answers, and Harry turn to him, surprised. He'd expected, "Well, obviously," or "No shit, Potter," but Draco's response is genial and calm, without even the barest hint of the biting sarcasm he's come to expect when he says something stupid.
"What? How do you figure?"
"Well, you're younger than me, Potter, so you can't be getting old. Because I'm not getting old. Well, not old, per se. I'm aging like a fine wine," he says conspiratorially, and Harry wonders—not for the first time and probably…no, definitely not for the last— whether Draco has lost his mind. "That's what the gorgeous and the fabulously wealthy do: they mature into full-bodied merlots, or something like that."
"Merlots?"
"Yes, I expect so. And since I've decided that you're pretty enough, you can turn into wine with me. Not merlot, though," Draco muses aloud. "Maybe a Zinfandel or something slightly tawdry like that. Grape juice spiked with Grand Marnier."
Harry stops in the middle of the school courtyard to look at him, happiness bursting in his chest. His lips twitch and suddenly he's laughing so hard his ribs hurt from it. Draco looks a little put out and Harry wraps his arm around Draco's thin shoulders. Draco's lips purse with thought and they start walking again. "And I was thinking…" his voice trails off.
"More wine?"
"No. Well, maybe later, but that's not what I was thinking about," Draco brushes a large speck of imaginary dirt off his lapel, and Harry is overcome by the force of emotion he feels for this man in front of him. "I was thinking that I need an office, so I can maybe start looking into schools for Potions Mastery programs, and maybe do my studying there. But we don't have enough room to build on, and we can't use my closet, so we'll just have to use your bedroom, and you can move in with me," he pauses, thinking for a moment, "Or I can move in with you. Whichever works."
Harry laughs and kisses him.
the end