Harry Potter and the related characters are the sole property of J. K. Rowling. No malicious intent or ill will is meant by using those characters and events in this fictional work.

Harry looked over at his wife, sleeping soundly, her unruly curls falling over her closed eyes. The smile on her face soothed him, but not much. He hadn't been able to sleep, despite Sirius informing him he needed to sleep in order to make sense of his newly changed life. He'd spent the past few hours puttering about the room, dragging out old journals and photo albums, all of his adventures with Hermione and Ron now were excursions with Hermione and Draco. He looked at pictures, spotting Lucious in the background of some, looking rather bitter that his perfect, pureblood son would be cavorting with "the boy who lived" and a "mudblood."

That was the constant, what hadn't changed, he realized. Malfoy may have been his loyal friend from the get-go, but Lucious was a Death-eater through-and-through, and was none-to-happy when his son was the first in the family to be sorted into a house other than Slytherin, when he became friends with the boy responsible for the Dark Lord's demise, when he refuted and rejected the black path every Malfoy before him laid had followed.

It was no wonder, now, as the fog in Harry's head began to clear, that Draco wasn't jealous and resentful, as Ron once was, because he had grown up privileged, wealthy, respected in the wizarding community. There was no need for him to be jealous. In fact, it had been Draco that prevented Harry from solidifying a friendship with Ron their first year.

"You'll find that some wizarding families are better than others," he had said. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." And with a lanky handshake, fate had been sealed. Though, the first go-round, the circumstances had been entirely different.

As Harry yawned, rubbed his eyes and scratched at his unruly hair, he turned the page of the album in his hands, and spotted a photo of he and his Quidditch team, third year, after winning a match against Slytherin. He and Hermione holding hands and cheering, Malfoy with his arm around Harry's shoulder with his other hand clutching his Firebolt. He noticed Ron, sulking in his green sportsrobes in the background. That's when the altered memories started to flood back to him.

Ron was the only wizard in his family to go dark, the only Slytherin in a pool of proud Gryffindors. He'd grown up resentful, being the youngest boy, never having anything new, or anything all his own. It got to him, all of it, and when he saw an opportunity to meet and befriend the most famous wizard in the age, a chance for his brothers to finally be envious of him, he was refused. From then on, there had been nothing but pure conflict between he and Harry. It only got worse as Harry grew closer to his brothers and sister. Fred and George brought him home for holidays, Bill and Charlie took a liking to him, too, and Arthur and Molly became the closest thing to parents Harry had ever known.

Not everything changed, it seemed, much to Harry's relief. And dismay.

The Battle of Hogwarts, its victims, with the exception, now, of Lupin and Tonks, and the aftermath were exactly as he had remembered. Sirius couldn't manipulate time too drastically. After all, terrible things happen to wizards who mess with time. He learned that lesson, a thousand times over, and swore to himself he wouldn't dare ever again.

"Harry," Hermione's soft voice called. The sound of her bedsheets ruffling filled the otherwise silent room as she sat up and scooted toward him. "What's the matter. You're thinking so loudly, you've woken me from a rather pleasant dream." She draped one hand along the curve of his neck and the other over her stomach. "Talk to me," she whispered.

He dropped his head, letting his face get lost in her curls, and he moaned lightly at the sweet smell emanating from her. "So tired," he mumbled. "Long day."

She bent her head slightly to kiss his forehead, her lips grazing the faded lightning bolt scar that held so much of his history. "I love you, Harry Potter."

"Hmm. And I, you, Hermione Granger." He smiled more broadly and let the photo book fall off of his lap, ignoring the angry shouts and screams from the pictures as they tumbled and dropped to the hardwood. His body twisted and he curled around her, his hands finding their way under her nightrobes, dancing along her fair skin. Painless sparks of electricity followed the path his fingertips drew, making her tremble and moan beneath him. He kicked the sheets away, pulled her closer, and flattened her down against the mattress. "Mrs. Potter," he whispered with a twinkle in his eyes, his lips moving against hers. He kiss her deeply as his hand waved and magicked away her nightdress, earning a gasp, a laugh, and an even deeper kiss.

He felt her arms wind around his neck, heard her mutter something into their kiss, and suddenly the air grew a few degrees colder. "Witch," he teased, knowing that she had done the same, and he was now flesh-to-flesh with the stunning, magical creature he had the honor of calling his wife.

"Oh, you say it like it's a bad thing," she laughed, her lips dropping soft kisses to his neck and collarbones. She felt him move, slipping between her thighs and with one gentle thrust he was home. She let out a soft cry of his name, her eyes closing, her head falling back, and dragged her nails down his shoulder blades. The glow began to swirl around them, a golden glow with a purpley-silver shift, and it filled the room with warmth and heightened every sensation.

Soft gasps, whispered murmurs of devotion, utterances of Latin and Greek passed between them as they moved, into each other, for each other.

He pulled her arms from around his working body and found her fingers with his, lacing them together and pressing her hands down into the mattress as he began to thrust harder, picking up his pace.

The glow around them began to burn hotter, its pale colors intensifying. Glass jars and crystal baubles began to float up off their shelves and dressers, spare wands began to shoot off sparks, and a fragrant blue smoke wafted upward from the floorboards. They were known to create powerful magic during moments such as this, but this was on another level entirely.

"'Mione," he growled, his jaw tight, teeth clenched as he moved with more power still.

He was driving into her with such passionate force, she could feel how much he truly loved her with every thrust. "My Harry," she moaned back to him. "Oh, my sweet Harry," she cried, gripping his hands tightly. Her knuckles, white with tension, curled even more in effort to hold onto him even more fiercely. She felt a burn rise from the soles of her feet, coursing through her veins like blessed venom, until it reached a scorching climax. The words that flew out of her mouth as her back arched and rose off the mattress were ones that would've made her blush under any other circumstance.

He grunted and spat out a few curse words of his own as he shot off, firing into her with white heat. He panted and whispered her name a few more times as he waited for his jerks and spasms to stop. He felt her body clamped around him, and he knew any attempt to move would send her into another fit of bliss. He smirked. He couldn't resist.

"Lord, Harry!" she cried out, her voice high pitched and her body seizing once again. Her back arched almost painfully, her neck craned to keep her head on the pillow, and she tightened around him like a vice, pulsing and milking him dry.

Breathing harshly, chests heaving, they lay a tangled, sweaty pile of limbs, vacuum-sealed together, and absolutely happy about it.

Just beyond their bedroom door, a four year old boy padded barefoot up and down the hall, his hair changing color with every footstep.

"Teddy!" a voice whispered harshly, chasing after him, "Get back here!"

The tot stopped, turned with a smile, and winked at his mother.

Tonks scooped the child up into his arms and heard a muffled moan from Harry and Hermione's room. It gave her pause, but she laughed to herself. "Looks like you're going to have a little playmate soon enough," she said, and she carried her son back into one of the guest rooms, where her husband waited for them.

No one had any intimation just how right she really was.

Peace and Love

Jo