To those of you who have been hanging on through all the pain, thank you. I know this fic took a very difficult turn that I'm sure you might not have expected when you hopped over to this fic from its predecessor. I've promised you fluff. And this time, I swear we're almost there.

I hope this chapter is satisfying. I kind of hope it makes you cry. I cried while writing it.

Many thanks to MsMerlin and Graceful Lioness.

Hermione was not at the library. A very annoyed Madam Pince kicked Draco out after he spent nearly twenty minutes searching every aisle, alcove, and study nook in the place. She wasn't out by the lake with most other students either. Now slightly sweaty, Draco marched up the steps to the seventh floor toward the only other place that came to mind.

When he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady outside of the Gryffindor Common Room, the woman turned her nose up at him.

"Please, if you just let me in—"

"I will not."

"What if I knew the password?"

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Draco's shoulders slumped. "Well, no, but—"

"No password, no entry," she sniffed. "And besides, it's you that they've been muttering about, so I wouldn't want to let you in anyway."

Draco didn't have to guess who 'they' were. Figuring he was out of luck, he slumped to the floor and leaned against the wall across from the portrait.

Thankfully, it didn't take long for someone to come along. It was a second or third year girl—he couldn't really tell which. He practically begged her to find Hermione for him if she was inside the tower. The girl reluctantly agreed before slinking past the portrait, her eyes still trained on him.

Four minutes later, Ginny stepped through the portrait hole.

She looked livid.

Face nearly as red as her hair, arms crossed, she walked right up to Draco and poked him in the chest.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Malfoy?"

Draco lifted his hands up. "I'm looking for Hermione. I just want to talk."

"Well she doesn't want to see you."

"I need to see her."

"Why?" Ginny put her hands on her hips, her frown deepening.

"To apologise."

"Apologise for what, exactly?"

Draco ran his fingers over his bruised knuckles, the subtle pain a reminder of the well deserved right hook he gave Ernie. He cleared his throat, the pixies returning to his stomach. He wanted to look down, but forced himself to keep eye contact with Ginny. To get to Hermione, he had to get through her first. "I want to apologise for being an arse—saying things I don't mean. Apologise for blaming her for something that wasn't her fault."

Ginny's expression softed, but only for a moment.

"Why did you say those things in the first place?" she pressed. "Do you know how much Hermione's hurting right now? She's cried herself to sleep every night for the last week. Hasn't been eating. Has barely been able to look at Shiloh."

The butterflies in his stomach turned to knots before they soured. Hermione had been crying herself to sleep? She hadn't been eating. A surge of protectiveness filled him. He had to get to her—had to get her to eat again somehow.

"I-I didn't know." His shoulders slumped, shame filling in the cracks between his organs.

"Of course you didn't know. You haven't been around. You've been off moping in some other corner of the castle."

Draco's brow furrowed. "Wait—Did you want me to come talk to Hermione?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You're such an insensitive wart. Yes, Hermione needs you. Even if you're the world's biggest arsehole."

The insult felt a little bruising, but he'd take it. It's not like Ginny's words weren't untrue.

"But what about all the horrible things I said? I called her a-a—"

"I know what you called her. But that wasn't the stupidest thing you did, Malfoy."

Draco cocked his head. "It wasn't?"

Ginny sighed, folding her arms again. "You basically told her that losing Scorpius was her fault. She was already beating herself up and completely miserable. Did you know that? Or were you so consumed with your own grief that you forgot about the fact that Hermione was the one carrying him inside her body?"

Draco could only stand stock still as Ginny's words hit him like a verbal Crucio.

"Did you know that she wakes up at night thinking about giving birth to him? She's always in hysterics, touching her stomach and practically inconsolable. There's only so much I can say to help her. It's you who's supposed to be the one comforting her. Not me. You."

"She's—dreaming about it?" Draco felt his stomach roil, felt his eyes burn in horror. Had he really been so selfish in his grief that he hadn't stopped to consider how much losing Scorpius was affecting her? Gods, he was such an arse. Worse than an arse. Worse than the lowliest flobberworm.

"Yeah. And you should have been there for her. But you know what? She hasn't asked for you. Not once."

This, more than anything pushed him over the edge. He wanted to make things right with Hermione, but if she didn't want him—if he had pushed her so far that she didn't want to see him or speak to him—what hope was there?

Draco dropped to his knees and sobbed as the weight of his heinous words truly fell upon his shoulders for the first time. Big, fat, ugly tears fell down his cheeks. He knew how he must look to Ginny. Like a fool. But he was beyond caring. That's not what mattered now.

All that mattered was that he had messed up.

He had one good thing going for him.

Just one.

And now? Now it was gone.

His wonderful, brilliant, patient, lovely Hermione was miserable and it was all his fault.

Draco sobbed harder, his body wracking as he tried to breathe, he was only able to shudder. Everything hurt. Sounds were suddenly far too loud. His own breathing echoed in his ears, rasping and desperate.

What had he done?

It wasn't until the lightest touch brushed his shoulder that Draco broke free from his own spiraling. His head snapped up to see what had touched his shoulder and gasped.

Hermione.

Ginny had stepped aside. In her place was Hermione, tear stains streaking down her face. There were bags under eyes the likes of which he hadn't seen since the weeks after Shiloh was born. But at least then, her eyes had been filled with joy and love. These eyes… he didn't recognise them. They were still the colour of chocolate, but they looked dulled, somehow.

Her robes were stained and rumpled. They hung off her body like they had last year, when she was on the run. How much weight had she lost since Scorpius? A stone, at least. Maybe two. Ginny had said she wasn't eating, but this… Worry poured freely into Draco. Before, that worry had been laced with anger and regret, bitterness and loathing. Now, the only thing driving the pit in his stomach was the love he felt for the woman in front of him.

In another time, Draco might have stalled. He might have mumbled or stuttered, overcome by emotion at the sight of his lovely girlfriend in such a state—so broken and battered by not just his words, but his actions.

But he didn't have the luxury of chances or extra time. This was not a moment to trip over his tongue or hem and haw about the minutiae of words.

This was the time to take action—the time to put himself out in the world before Hermione, to make himself vulnerable and bare his heart before her. Because if he didn't do it now, there might not be another chance.

So when Hermione's face crinkled with confusion, the lump in her throat bobbing as she asked him, "Draco, what are you doing here?" there were only two words that he could have possibly said.

His eyes never leaving hers, Draco spoke in as clear of a voice as he could manage.

"I'm sorry."

When her expression didn't shift, he tried again.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione."

She swallowed.

A dam inside of him broke.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." Tears streamed down his face as apologies poured from him. "I'm sorry I blamed you for Scorpius and I'm sorry I kept those bloody letters from you and I'm so, so fucking sorry I called you a-a—."

His voice wavered as he saw tears fall down Hermione's cheeks as well.

Squeezing his eyes shut so he didn't have to see the expression on her face, he forced himself to continue talking. "If you want to hate me, I won't stop you. I hate myself. Because it wasn't the fucking Dark Lord that made me say that to you. No one was holding a wand to my throat. I wanted to hurt you. Wanted to make you cry. And for that, I don't know if I can ever forgive myself."

Draco was sure he hadn't ever looked so pathetic in his life, but he didn't give a damn.

Let Hermione see him flushed and covered in tears and snot. Let her see the mess he'd become.

He braced himself to open his eyes—to look up at Hermione once more.

She was bound to react with disgust, recoiling from his hideousness. Or perhaps she'd react with pity. He'd take it. He'd get down on his knees and beg if he had to.

Peeling his still-wet eyes open, he looked into her chocolate ones. And what he saw took his breath away.

Her eyes weren't narrowed in disgust or wide with pity. She was still crying, yes, but there was something more to the shape of her lips and the angle of her brows that told him she was feeling something else entirely.

"Hermione?" The word came out as a whisper, desperate and searching.

Her face contorted for a moment, but she composed herself.

And then she said something miraculous.

"I don't hate you, Draco. I couldn't… not ever. I… I—I love you."

As the last three words caressed his ears, Draco felt himself break. He flung himself forward on his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around Hermione's legs, burying his head in her knees. A soft touch on his head and fingers gently combing his hair told him that maybe, just maybe, there might be a path forward.

"I love you," he murmured into the leg of her trousers. "I love you so much. I'm so sorry."

They stayed like that for a while, unmoving, his head leaning against her, and her fingers stroking his hair.

Silence rang in the corridors. Draco briefly wondered if Ginny had gone—if they were alone.

"I should have given us more time." Hermione's voice was raspy and heartbroken. "At the Hospital Wing. I should have given us time to think—to mourn. Instead I pushed forward without talking to you." She paused, though her fingers continued carding through his hair. "It's not all on you, Draco."

"Losing Scorpius wasn't your fault." Draco shook his head as he took a great breath. "It was wrong of me to say those things to you. I don't really think that, you know? At the time, I was so angry—so sad—I wasn't thinking straight."

Hermione's hand paused. "I know."

Draco sighed, his bones suddenly feeling like butter.

"But you did still say them."

Draco's heart stuttered. His mouth went dry.

He nodded. "Yeah."

Fingers touched his chin, tilting his face up. Grey found brown.

"I don't want to fight. I'm not ready to forgive you for everything yet, but I want to move forward. I want to move forward with you. I'm tired of crying by myself."

Her words collided with his empty chest, and as Hermione sank to the ground and into his arms, his heart began to thump a healthy rhythm for the first time in two weeks. Holding her, feeling her curls against his cheek—this was how they were meant to be.

It wasn't perfect. It might never be perfect again. But they had each other now, and that had to count for something.

Having Hermione and Shiloh back with him brought life back into their little flat. Draco no longer woke alone, or sat for hours in silence. His days were filled with the babbling of his daughter and the feeling of Hermione's fingers laced through his, and honestly, he couldn't have been more filled with gratitude if he tried.

She'd made it very clear that they had a lot they needed to talk about.

"I'm not going to lie to you," she said as they laid in the dark of their bedroom for their first night back together. "I haven't forgotten how cruel you were. It… reminded me of when we were younger."

"I'm—"

"Don't say you're sorry again. Show me that you've changed."

They agreed to be careful with their relationship. Slow. They held hands. They hugged. Mostly, they talked.

It felt a lot like that summer—that summer that felt like it was so long ago.

They had spent a lot of time talking then. Riding bicycles. Eating ice cream. Their relationship hadn't been simpler—it had never been simple, really. But it was a far cry from the complex web their lives had become since then.

Returning to that felt nice.

Draco told Hermione about books on Healing he had checked out from the library—after swearing that he wouldn't "rampage through the shelves like an erumpant" to Madam Pince, of course.

Hermione told him about the jobs she had been applying to at the MInistry. She admitted that though she hated the idea of working for that vile man Carlisle Bluster, her heart was still set on the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

They talked about Shiloh, repeating on a seemingly endless cycle how amazed they were at her size, at her abilities…

They didn't talk about Scoripus. Not yet. Draco wasn't sure either of them would be able to even broach the subject without breaking down. The two of them had finally reached some sort of equilibrium from which they could forge a path forward, and it was just precarious enough that it wasn't worth the risk.

By the time April reached its final days, Draco was feeling more at ease than he had in a long while. He told Hermione about MacMillan's confession during one of their late-night talks. Her response had been quiet at first. She'd laid completely still as he spoke, and when he was done, she rolled on her side, facing away from him.

Draco had to admit that he was a bit disappointed with her reaction. He'd been furious to the point of punching MacMillan. Surely, she felt at least some of that anger.

For a while, it appeared as though she didn't harbour negative feelings. She appeared to be taking the high road; that she had somehow moved past this horrible information. Days passed without a word from her about MacMillan. She even walked right by him in Transfiguration and seemed to deliberately stare straight ahead instead of meeting his eye. After a week, Draco was convinced that she truly wasn't going to react at all.

And then, on the last day of April just as Draco stopped wondering when she would react, she snapped.

Owls swooped overhead to deliver letters during breakfast, and Hermione marched up to MacMillan in the middle of the Great Hall, seemingly without provocation, and slapped him across the face. The whole hall had gone silent as the sound of palm on cheek reverberated across the enchanting ceiling. Heads turned. Eyes grew wide.

McGonagall had merely glanced up from her copy of The Daily Prophet.

Draco figured that McGonagall trusted Hermione enough that if she slapped someone, they likely deserved it. He doubted if anyone else in the castle would get that same trust.

Looking at Hermione's determinedly calm features and MacMillan's beet red face, he was grateful for the Headmistress's oversight.

The sight was truly satisfying. He always knew she had a vindictive streak, having experienced it himself during their third year, and there was definitely a part of him that was incredibly attracted to her in that moment.

Breakfast returned to normal within a couple minutes, murmurings returning to the usual volume. Hermione said nothing as she slid back into her spot at the Gryffindor table. She didn't need to.

No one else knew the true reason behind the slap, but it seemed like everyone was too intimidated to ask. Even Ginny held back, greeting Hermione with a mere raise of her eyebrows as breakfast began.

That very same morning, a handsome owl landed beside their plates, narrowly avoiding a platter of sausages. A letter addressed to him and to Hermione was tied to its leg. He quickly removed it, recognising the Weasley family owl that had replaced Errol.

"It's from Mrs. Weasley," he informed Hermione after glancing through the opening lines. "She-she wants to know if we've made arrangements for Shiloh's birthday party."

The familiar lurch in his stomach made an appearance—the same lurch he always felt when he thought about the impending anniversary. Hermione shifted beside him, and he wondered if she also felt the same lurch. They both looked up at Shiloh, who was currently fisting a piece of scrambled egg from Longbottom's lap.

"She'll never forgive us if we don't throw her a proper party." Hermione sighed into her bowl of porridge. "You do know that, don't you?"

Draco grimaced. "Even on that day?" He glanced back down at the letter, his eyes darting back and forth as he read the rest of it.

I do hope you choose to have a party. If it's too much of a hassle to have at Hogwarts—

"Ah. I suppose you're right." Draco brandished the parchment in his hand. "She's offered to host the party. She says she'll—" He checked the letter again. "—take care of everything and all we'll need to do is show up. And she wants to have it this Saturday on the first of May. What do you think?"

Hermione's eyes traveled to the letter and then over to Shiloh, who had smashed a bit of egg onto Longbottom's cheek. "Well we can bring the cake we ordered at the very least."

"So… is that—are we sure this is a good idea?"

Hermione pushed her porridge around the bowl with a spoon. "Honestly, I'm tired of feeling sad all the time. I think a proper birthday party would be… nice. Besides, I really want to see her try cake for the first time."

They both turned to Shiloh, who had somehow managed to smear maple syrup from Longbottom's pancakes all over her face and torso.

Draco chuckled. "I'll admit, that's something I wouldn't mind seeing."

He sent their reply to Mrs. Weasley immediately, accepting her offer.

The Burrow was full of life the following Saturday afternoon. A handful of friends from Hogwarts—Ginny, Longbottom, Luna, and even Theo—had all promised to be there. Ron and Harry along with little Teddy, and the other Weasleys milled about as well, each arriving with a present in hand and grateful smiles on their faces.

Draco was grateful that no one was giving him dirty looks. After the way he stormed out of Teddy's birthday, he figured that Harry or Ron might want to give him a thorough dressing down. But he guessed that Hermione had told them not to say anything, because while they greeted him a little more warily than usual, neither of them broached Teddy's party.

Shiloh was relishing in the attention, hamming it up for the guests with her big cheesy grins and belly laughs. Ron took it upon himself to tickle his goddaughter until her laughter rang in every inch of the Burrow. Eventually, everyone settled in the sitting room. Hermione plucked Shiloh from Ron's arms and carried her into the center. Draco followed, and the three of them sat on the floor surrounded by a small mountain of brightly wrapped parcels.

Shiloh, of course, had no idea what was going on, and squirmed as Draco began to unbox the first present: a small stack of books. He smiled at the titles.

Dragon's Alphabet

Pepper the Persnickety Pixie

What's In The Cauldron?

Hermione seemed delighted. Shiloh was far more interested in shoving What's In The Cauldron? in her mouth.

Just as Draco reached for another gift, the Floo briefly roared to life again behind Luna and Neville. Everyone turned, and Draco had time to see a few eyes grow wide before a tall, pale figure came into view.

His mother.

She was dressed in pale pink robes, and while there were clear worry lines dotted across her forehead, the smile that spread across her face when she stepped into the room was genuine.

Before he had a chance to say anything, Mrs. Weasley stepped forward. "Oh, Narcissa. I'm so glad you could make it!"

Mother dusted her robes off, beaming down at Shiloh and him. "Yes, well what kind of grandmother would I be if I missed my granddaughter's first birthday party?"

One side of Draco's lips twisted upward. He didn't quite know why, but knowing that his mother was there filled him with a rare kind of warmth that he hadn't felt in quite a number of years. He made a mental note to thank Mrs. Weasley for inviting her later.

In the end, Draco opened up several more gifts, including plush creatures, clothing in various sizes, a toy broomstick (courtesy of Ron), more books, a set of blocks, and an enchanted toy tea set made of china that would sing silly songs when in use—evidently the very same one his mother had as a young girl. When all the presents had been opened, paper strewn all about the room, everyone shuffled from the sitting room to the dining area, where the cake now became the center of attention.

The dragon-themed confection they'd ordered weeks ago was a smash hit to all the party-goers, but more importantly, Shiloh loved it. She shrieked with joy when she caught sight of the cake, flapping her arms and pointing to it. That was one thing Draco especially loved about his daughter. There was nothing ambiguous about her. He always knew how she was feeling. She wasn't self-conscious about showing sadness or joy or anger. Life hadn't taught her to be that way yet.

Life had also definitely not given her the opportunity to learn table manners yet either. Within seconds of placing a slice of the beautifully baked confection in front of her, she had covered herself in green frosting, her mouth fully smeared with chocolate.

When Draco crouched beside Shiloh, where she sat strapped into a high chair, he opened his mouth.

"Can Daddy have some?" he asked, pointing to his mouth.

With an uproarious giggle, Shiloh grabbed a handful of cake and smashed it adjacent to his mouth. Draco was vaguely aware that someone was taking photographs, and that everyone had their eyes on him, but he didn't care. These kinds of looks, he could take them.

Let them see him being silly, being kind.

Let them see him be the kind of man he wanted to be. The kind of father he wanted to be.

"So delicious. Thank you, pixie." He grinned and ruffled a spot on Shiloh's hair that hadn't been covered in cake yet.

As he stood and swiped the cake off his face with his thumb, his eyes landed on Mother. She was staring at him, painted lips slightly agape.

Tears in her eyes.

Later, after the remainder of the cake had been distributed and everyone was mingling, his mother approached him, eyes slightly red, mouth stretching tentatively into a smile. She mentioned that she had to head back to the Manor, as she only had an hour's reprieve from her house arrest. Before she turned back toward the Floo, she pulled him close and whispered five small words in his ear.

"I'm so proud of you." In the few seconds after she spoke, Mother merely held his face in her palms, searching his eyes. There was so much there—so much he had spent years looking for. Approval. Pride. Love.

And there it was.

She pressed a chaste kiss against his cheek, hands moving to give his shoulders a gentle squeeze before she slipped through the Floo. A newfound warmth emanated through him as his mother's softly spoken praise settled in—a contentment Draco wasn't sure he'd ever felt before.

The party dwindled as everyone finished their cake. People spoke of wanting to go home and get some rest. No one had to elaborate why rest was needed after a simple cake and presents. It wasn't the party at all, but the prospect of tomorrow that drove everyone to retire early.

Tomorrow.

May Second.

There were gatherings planned. Speeches. Memorials to be unveiled. It was a daunting prospect, being expected to be present at all of those things. Draco was already exhausted just thinking about it.

And yet it was coming.

Today's party had been a lovely reprieve from the impending sorrow for everyone there.

By the time all the guests had gone and he and Hermione had helped Mrs. Weasley clean up, the sun was just beginning to sink lower in the sky, painting the countryside in lovely hues of gold. Shiloh began to fuss just as the last dry dish floated into the cupboards, and before Hermione could scoop her up, Mrs. Weasley beat her to it, insisting that she could bathe and change their daughter.

"Go on outside, you two. It's a lovely evening." She shooed them out the door and closed it promptly behind them.

Their feet carried them to the orchard, though Draco didn't really remember making a conscious decision to go there. All he felt was the warm breeze on his face and the feel of Hermione's fingers laced with his. When he glanced at her, he was struck with the resilience and beauty of the woman Hermione had become. The golden rays of the sunset painted her skin in dew and light.

"Is everything okay?" Hermione turned to face him, and there was a slight tilt to her head, her lips stretching in a small smile.

"Just thinking about how amazing you are."

Hermione's cheeks went pink, and Draco couldn't help the grin that spread across his face at her reaction. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I don't know about amazing, but—"

"You are. Amazing. Wondrous. Marvelous. Extraordinary. Exquisite. and so many other things. The list is endless.."

She flushed scarlet.

They continued walking toward the orchard, hand in hand.

"You are too, you know."

Draco furrowed his brow. "I am what?"

"Amazing. Wondrous. Exquisite. All those words."

Draco felt his own face heat up. It was a lovely lie for Hermione to tell him.

"I like it when you get embarrassed, Draco. Your ears turn red. Did you know?"

Draco immediately clapped his hands over them.

"No, don't! Please. I like it, honestly. It's… adorable."

Heat radiated down his neck as Hermione reached for his hand again. They fell into a contented silence as they reached their destination. It wasn't like the difficult silences that had filled the space between them for the past several months. There was no invisible barrier to overcome. Instead, the air between them was comfortable. At ease. Serene.

"So many memories here." Hermione's gaze traveled around the orchard. "I kissed you here. We were together for the first time here."

"At Bill and Fleur's wedding. I remember that."

"That summer seems so long ago."

"Do you remember how you made me wear Potter's old clothes?" Draco smirked at Hermione, who nudged him with her elbow.

"That's only because you would have looked funny riding a bike in your slacks and button-up. You know better now."

Draco shrugged. "I know a lot better, I think."

Hermione gave him a knowing look, eyebrows raised slightly, the corners of her mouth turning up. Somehow, she knew that he wasn't just talking about Muggle clothes anymore. "You've grown."

"We both have."

Nodding, Hermione squeezed his hand. "You know, I always thought that if we could just get through the war, that everything would be fine. Everything would be easy compared to fighting Voldemort."

Draco flinched. Hermione squeezed his hand again.

"I was naïve in that way, I suppose," she continued, her eyes gazing up at the treetops. "I guess I didn't realize there were different types of pain. And that winning the war wouldn't solve all our problems. I mean, thinking about it now, it's obvious. I actually feel kind of stupid."

"If there's one thing you're not, it's stupid." It was his turn to squeeze her hand.

Hermione's eyes shone with a gentle sort of love as she looked back at him. Draco's heart thumped a steady rhythm in his chest. It hit him once again that this—right here, was exactly where he was supposed to be.

"Look," he said, his eyes trained on hers. "All I know is that we've both gone through some of the worst. And there's bound to be more difficulties in our future. But there's no one I'd rather go through it with than you."

Eyes watering slightly, Hermione turned into him and buried her face in his chest. Draco could feel her tears dampening his shirt, but he didn't particularly care. All that mattered was that Hermione was back in his arms. He might not have fully earned back her trust, but he swore to himself that he'd do anything to get there.

That same, comfortable stillness filled the crevices between their bodies once again. Draco buried his nose in Hermione's hair, inhaling the subtle scent. His thumb rubbed gentle circles on her back as he held her. Hermione just held him tight, steadfast, unmoving.

"I brought something out here," she whispered into his shirt after a minute. The sound was muffled slightly, but it didn't matter. Apart from her voice, the only other sounds were the soft chirps of grasshoppers and frogs in the distance.

"Yeah?" He spoke the words into the top of her head, his lips pressing gently against her forehead. "What's that?"

Hermione drew back for a moment and summoned something from within her beaded bag.

A flower. Protected by enchantments. It was blooming in vibrant petals of pink.

"A peony?" Draco cocked his head slightly.

"They always bloom this time of year." Hermione held the plant up, exposing its roots. "And I thought that we could plant it… for Scorpius."

Draco's heart clenched. A wave of pain threatened to crash over him. He had the urge to run. To punch something.

And then the urge faded as quickly as it came, leaving sadness in its wake.

It wasn't as raw as it had been, but it still left a deep aching in his chest.

"For Scorpius?"

Hermione nodded. "That way we can come visit him. Whenever we're here. And—" She nodded over toward a spot several feet away, where a small headstone sat. "I figured that Fred might like some company. He was always good with small kids."

They planted the peony plant together, digging in the dirt with their hands. Something about feeling the soft earth against the skin of his palms and fingertips felt cathartic. It was as though something about their journey with Scorpius finally felt right, and for the first time in weeks, Draco felt at peace.

He and Hermione lowered the plant in and patted the dirt around it. Hermione cast a soft, "Aguamenti," before they both sat cross-legged and stared at it until the sun disappeared around the horizon. Grief and unfulfilled dreams swirled around them as they sat in silence. Words didn't seem necessary. Not right now. Words would come slowly. Perhaps in the dark of the night as they laid in bed together. Or during a stroll around the lake.

They would come.

But for now, this was enough.

The anniversary of the end of the war passed without incident. It was a day full of gatherings. Everyone was dressed in formal, black robes. Draco mostly hung back during the dedications and speeches and mingling. It reminded him of all the funerals they had attended last year. Instead of a newborn, Draco now held a squirmy one year-old. Most of Minister Shacklebolt's speech was spent pacing around the back of the crowd as Shiloh explored the grassy grounds of Hogwarts.

He would have been self-conscious, had Harry Potter, himself not been doing the exact same thing with Teddy.

The day was a blur, and for Draco, it brought no sense of closure. The war had left behind a gaping wound that would take years to heal, if it ever did. He had spent the last year of his life raising a family on hallowed ground. It was a place that had seen so much death and grief, and yet, had been his family's first home.

They'd move on soon, to new places and experiences. And when they did, they'd still carry the weight of the war on their shoulders.

But somehow, Draco knew that they would be okay.

When it was all over and crowds began to disperse to the edge of the grounds, he and Hermione sat on the grass with their friends and classmates, chatting and watching Shiloh and Teddy play. There was grief there, yes, but there was also hope. The chance of happiness. Love.

Draco's thoughts lingered briefly on that portrait at Malfoy Manor. The family that had raised him had never offered him something this hopeful. This happy. This full of love.

He watched as Shiloh pressed a sloppy kiss on Hermione's lips, a dimpled smile stretching across her little, rosy cheeks.

This was happiness.

He wanted to remember it for when difficult times came again. Because they would come. Undoubtedly. Inevitably.

Draco's mind flicked back to the walls of the Granger's home. To the shelves and mantels, each lined with photo after photo of Hermione's happy childhood. That was what he wanted. Something to remind them of what was really important.

Perhaps he would send an owl tonight to find someone who could take photographs for them. He wanted to take family photographs, right here on the Hogwarts grounds. It was both a place of immense sadness and where their little gift of joy had been born. It was, much like their bodies and lives, littered with scars.

But those scars were theirs to live with. To claim. To overcome.

Just a few feet away, Shiloh shrieked with joy as a butterfly fluttered just past her nose.

They were going to have a happy life.

I would happily send tissues to all of you if I could.

Next chapter there will be a bit of a time skip.

So much love to you all!