Précis: Wherein Gryffindor and Slytherin are married, It's Coming Home (seriously!), outnumbered Ravenclaw runs rampant, the brilliant Professor Binns finally receives his due acknowledgement, Hufflepuff is mentioned, Dumbledore's best wisdom is not forgotten, and there is entirely Too Much Shakespeare.

Advice 1: Please stick out the first few paragraphs, I swear it becomes more normal! If you really can't stand the beginning, just skip to "Neville's broad shoulders". I swear I won't judge you (but only because I won't know you did it.)

Advice 2: It's nicer to read on AO3! You can find it at ao3/works/51947800 (or via Google).

Disclaimed: Do I think [insert politically objectionable statement here]? Nope! Then you know that I cannot be JKR, and as such this work seeks no profit through the inclusion of Harry Potter or related intellectual property. Thankfully, the labor of a greater genius is public domain, which means I am at full liberty to butcher it as I please. Sorry about that, Will.

Rating: Conservatively M for language and sensibility

AN EPILOGUE OF SOMETHING

Hugo Evan Potter was bored. The day was hot, the grounds were crowded, and someone must have slowed the clocks. Turning to his companion, he gave a sly smile, then declared "O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Well-forewarning wind did seem to say 'Seek not a scorpion's nest, nor set no footing on this unkind shore.' And here upon his arm, the lioness had torn some flesh away, which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, and cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind."

"'Dear wife'?" she answered, "I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three year old, convers'd with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously. But, as a brother to his sister, show'd bashful sincerity and comely love."

The foolish magician in question laughed at this rejoinder. "O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school. Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books, but love from love, toward school with heavy looks. I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. The general of our horse thou art; and we, great in our hope, lay our best love and credence upon thy promising fortune."

Cynthia Longbottom could no longer suppress her own wry smile. The couple had developed this form of badinage over the long course of their relationship. It all began that first year Christmas, when he had returned to the castle with his grandmother's fateful gift packed haphazard in his trunk. They'd huddled together side-by-side parsing this ancient muggle literature, thinking it magical from the start. "Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay," she affirmed. Then, with a wink, "For Diana's no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. Be of good cheer; fear nothing: Your sister is the better soldier. The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, the green leaves quiver with the cooling wind."

"You have witchcraft in your lips—taffeta phrases, silken terms precise—'tis one of the best discretions of a 'oman as ever I did look upon." He suddenly stopped short, turning to catch his own green eyes in the figure of an approaching man. "Now, Harry, whence come you?"

His father rolled his eyes at this greeting. "Good morrow, good Sir Hugh," he recited (with long-suffering humour and in a bad West Country accent), "Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. Or rather," he amended in his own voice, "it would be wonderful, if it were possible. Merlin knows I've tried. I've given up on you two entirely. My house, full of Ravenclaws! How did this happen to me?"

"Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought. I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. Yet let me wonder, Harry, at thy affections—"

"Oh, enough! Hugo, have you seen your mum?"

"Fine, you're no fun. I think I saw her talking with Thea's dad? But she might have gone off with gran to check on Rose."

Sighing, Harry Potter nodded gratefully to the pair and walked off to where he spied the broad shoulders of Neville Longbottom hunched over the dirt. His old friend, it seemed, was doing some last minute checks on the rows of Vinca verdimillious he had enchanted for the ceremony. 'The Father of the Bride'! Of all Harry's uncomfortable titles ('The Boy Who Lived', 'The Man Who Triumphed', 'The Seeker Who Forsook England') he felt least at ease with this latest. Walking into the Forbidden Forest alone to face Voldemort and certain death was one thing. Walking his beloved baby girl down the aisle to wed a Malfoy—now that, that was quite another. Not even the Resurrection Stone would help him here, he thought, he'd need his wife to calm his nerves. (For it was she, after all, who'd concocted 'The Idiot Who Died', the only epithet that made him smile.) First he had to find her. So he squatted down, hissing at the little creak in his knees, and waited for a chance to interrupt. " 'Lo Nev. The flowers look incredible. Seen Hermione?"

Before the fastidious herbologist could reply, a familiar voice rang out to him from across the lawn. "They're just about finished! Can you believe the time's gone already?"

"Great!" called Harry, "Should we start getting the guests together then? Give me a second and then I'll head back up with you!" Aside, he added, "Neville, would you mind helping to spread the word and ushering everyone into their seats?"

"No problem, Harry. I'll see if I can recruit some Weasleys to help out too."

"You're the best. Tell Luna I said hello and that I'll find her later. There's just been no time at all this morning. Eventually it's going to ease up, right? Right?

"I hate to break it to you, Harry, but I think that you might—"

"I'd really prefer you didn't finish that thought, Nev. I'll catch up with you when I get a chance. Which I will get. I'll put Hugo in charge if I have to."

"Can we get, I don't know, Victoire or someone instead?"

"I'll take it under advisement. Go yell at some people to yell at some other people to go where they're supposed to. I probably should head up to the house and find Hermione before I spoil my daughter's wedding by making it five minutes late."

Satisfied that he could rely on his friend, Harry made his way over to Rosaline Holmes-Granger. "I sent Neville to round up the guests. It should be fine?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," replied his mother-in-law, "even if I'm sure your faith in him is justified. If we walk out to empty chairs, I'm taking none of the blame."

"Is she that bad? Nervous, I mean?"

"Who? Rose? Hermione?"

"All of the above?"

"No worse than you, dear. Don't worry so much. What's the worst that could happen? I mean, it's only your entire country watching! Whole world, rather, I'd imagine."

"I hate this. Why am I doing this? What have I done to deserve this?"

"Because my granddaughter deserves it, that's why. As for what you've done to deserve my granddaughter, I'm not sure I could say. Now hurry up! You still need to talk with Hermione and then it's going to be showtime."

"How did you know I was looking for Hermione?"

"Harry, how long have I known you? Are you ever not looking for Hermione?"

Harry had to concede this was a good point. He had little experience with mothers, and less with mothers-in-law, but he had no doubt that Rosaline was among the very best of both. She was sharp and witty, like her daughter, but possessed a greater equanimity and a stronger inclination to humour. That Harry would connect so well with her was something like inevitable. They pushed through the doors and Rosaline peeled off to freshen up, leaving Harry to search for Hermione.

He found his beautiful wife pacing in the kitchen and muttering to herself. Harry pulled her from behind into his embrace, taking care not to disturb her laboriously prepared hair. "How are things looking here?"

She relaxed into his arms immediately and shrugged them closer. "They're good. Better than I expected to be honest. Rose is excited. She's a little nervous, but mostly excited. This is probably a cakewalk for her. You know how she is. She deals with more pressure than this every week of her life."

"Yeah, sure, and we were complete strangers to 'pressure' when we were married. I won't speak for you, but I was certainly a wreck. Thankfully, no one pays attention to the groom."

"No one pays attention to the groom … that is, unless he's Harry Bloody Potter."

"Their loss," Harry said, "I had eyes only for the bride." He kissed her temple. Then, in a low voice, seriously, "Tell me it's going to be fine."

Hermione pulled herself away and turned to face her husband. "It's going to be fine. Scorpius is a great guy. He's good for her. You like him! Harry, you even like Draco. So don't pretend to me this is about Malfoys or Slytherins or that you're fifteen years old again."

Although it was what he needed to hear, Harry knew this was also the hardest thing for her to say. "You're right, of course. I knew you'd know just what to tell me. Even though, you know, it does matter. The whole Malfoy thing."

"Scorpius is not his father."

"Scorpius is still a Malfoy. It's not his fault that he's a Malfoy, just as it's not his fault that his dad and granddad and all the rest of them were fucking evil. But it does matter, of course it matters. It has to matter. Rose understands, and so does Scorpius. I made sure of it. It was my only test, the only condition, that they had to pass."

In this way the two comforted each other, alternating vulnerability and support easy as breathing. Such was the nature of their intimacy. Each knew the other as they knew themselves, because each knew that the other would do anything for them. They had passed the ultimate verge together; only together had they been able to survive. To depend upon another so utterly at that limit is to establish a bond at the foundation of one's soul. And this is the true magic of human being.

Hermione Granger regarded the man before her. Although he remained a fit wizard, his naturally slim physique had begun to lose some of its wiry definition. He no longer tried to hide the faded scar, at once emblem of victory and memento of loss, though she knew he had never stopped hating it. He wore his shock of hair (which she loved) no less messy on this occasion as any other (for which she loved him). His brilliant eyes glimmered beneath his spectacles with warm affection.

He was the love of her life. She had fought for him. In more ways than one. She was a fighter. For him, as equally their children, she would rise to every challenge. Even if that meant linking her arm with the man whose face and name would for ever (sometimes) remind her of the manor floor and the burning cruciatus and Bellatrix' dagger and all their desperate ruin. Who was she to dictate to her daughter about the impossible dreams of the heart? She, of all people, could respect the conviction of desire, and well understood the futility of opposing its choice. It helped that Scorpius was indeed a good man. Harry would have made sure of it, not that she thought Rose could possibly have grown to love him otherwise.

Her daughter the bride clattered into the kitchen, as if on cue. She gave her parents a radiant smile and waved her arms in the vague direction of the door. "I can't hug you right now. Laurel would kill me if I did anything to the dress. But come on! It's time to go!"

Hermione let Rose shuttle them through the hall and out into the entryway where the party was organising itself. This was the last chance, the final moment she'd have to herself, before she'd be subject to the spotlight of the so-called Wedding of the Decade. She spent it watching their conversation. They looked so alike together, father and daughter. In her youth, Rose had worn her fine brown hair in long soft waves (of the kind a teenage Hermione had fervently wished her own had taken). Then the summer before her sixth year, in celebration of earning the Gryffindor captaincy, she had lopped the whole lot off. Whereupon it promptly grew into the same iconic windswept mess that crowned her father. (This had of, course, triggered an avalanche of breathless media coverage, although the craze was short lived given how few could achieve it, and how few could pull it off.)

Having inherited her father's slender athletic figure, Rose had escaped the stage of awkward adolescent unloveliness that so vexed her brother (though Hugo had endured it, Hermione recalled, far more gracefully than she had herself). Rose had also inherited, as if in trade, her mother's buck teeth. These she refused to correct. Instead, she embraced them with such exuberant confidence that they were transformed, by sheer force of personality, from would-be blemish into her most strikingly attractive feature. Rose blazed through life with a self-assuredness hardly to be found in either Harry or herself. Hermione liked to think of it as the spirit of Prongs reborn. She caught her daughter's hazel eyes—an intricate combination of her brown and Harry's green? or were they come direct from James?—and knew a radiant smile of her own had broken across her face.

At this moment, the sound of violins softly washed over the chattering crowd, and the assembly fell into hushed anticipation. Rosalind Potter looked away from her mother, trying hard not to cry, and held out her arm to her father. They would be the last in this procession. She watched as Draco Malfoy, quietly sombre as always, inhaled deeply and made a decisive stride to meet Hermione. He offered her his arm, just as they passed the threshold, so that the former enemies emerged into the sunny afternoon together. Next to leave was her maid-of-honour Laurel Davies (Scorpius' cousin, former Head Girl, and rising star in the great tradition of Hufflepuff aurors), accompanied by the best man Matthew Knox (Scorpius' old roommate, former Quidditch Captain, and aspiring England beater). Rose had found in the former a friend that could reliably be guilted (on thin pretext) into providing last-minute homework answers, an essential role for a quidditch obsessive with high family expectations. Scorpius had found in the latter a friend that could reliably be convinced (on even thinner pretext) to host parties large and small, similarly crucial to a future Head Boy who'd wanted to fit in with the more popular crowd.

Then it was their turn. Harry was looking at her with that gaze of patient understanding that had seen through every facade or prevarication since the day she was born. She was glad of it. That she could open her heart to this man, who had done so very much for her, and share this incredible moment with him. She had been truly blessed to have him as her father. And now he lead her, out the door, into the blinding light. The crowd was a blur. She was not crying as they walked, with slow but certain step, down the aisle. Neville's brilliant flowers shot up a volley of their preposterous green sparks. She caught a glimpse of her brother, wrapped in bottle green, and the lissome form in purple and saffron beside him, together in the front row. Her vision was smeared with happy tears. She could tell her parents were already leaning against each other, a world unto themselves, full of tender joy.

Then she beheld the face of the man she loved, and everything else fell away.

Harry Potter had spent the maid-of-honour's long speech thinking about the best man. He needed to consult his oldest friend, whose analytical genius he trusted implicitly. Once the speech was finally over, he did just that. "How are things looking with Knox? He and Scorpius always impressed me when they were at Hogwarts. I'd say they were the only pair that ever gave Rose trouble." When the question was quidditch, there was only one man Harry trusted to have the answers.

"Those Slytherin teams weren't bad at all for the school level," Ron Weasley agreed. "Scorpius had a pretty strong arm, hit a pretty heavy bludger. Wasn't ever a prospect though. Not a natural in the air, and he lacked the vision a great beater needs. But yeah, Knox is exciting. He's stepped up for Tutshill this year in a big way. You know I'm always watching the beaters."

"Still the most underrated position on the field, right?"

"Damn right. Still the second most important position on the field. Knox could be the best one we've had since Jones. It's a big role. He's got a real shot at it."

"Do you think they'll bring it home? Be honest."

"Look, you know Rose is special. You were the first to see it. I was a little skeptical when you told me she was gonna be better than you. We'd watch those pensive memories together and for a while I could chalk up her wins to her broom or the fact that the other kids sucked. She just kept getting better though. Those sixth year games, Harry, I hope you saved them. That's when her flying started to become art."

"Give me some credit, Ron. Back when she first started at Hogwarts, I asked Hermione what she knew about memory preservation. A month later there were a dozen prototype phials rolling around in the basement workshop. Our archive materials are probably better than the DoM's at this point. I've got every game I watched and everything she ever sent me."

"Right, that does sound like you and Hermione. The bottom line is that having Rose means we've always got a chance. Hell, we should always be the favourite. But sometimes the snitch just picks the other seeker and there's nothing you can do about it. Nature of the sport. Being better isn't good enough. Krum got four shots with Bulgaria and even he only got the one win in '02."

"Is she really that good?"

"As good as Krum? No, I don't think so. The pundits are completely right about him, by the way, unquestionably the best seeker of the past 50 years. Probably the century, to tell the truth. Both More and Li got to pad their stats against bad domestic league competition, and neither had more than one dominant World Cup. The game is totally different now, just with the international professionalisation, to say nothing of equipment or tactics or officiating."

"Makes sense. She'll pass Krum within the year though. Probably by Caerphilly's league opener, but definitely by the World Cup."

"The scary thing is, I think you could be right. She's special, Harry."

"Yeah, yeah she is. Thanks Ron, for all your help with her."

"Of course, Harry. She's a decent enough kid, too."

Harry Potter gave his friend a good natured shove and went off to find his wife. With a shrug, Ron Weasley went off to find his seeker.

"This is great and all, Rose, but when are you going to do something I'll actually want to congratulate you for?"

The bride flushed. "We're … well, we're, uh, not quite thinking of that anytime soon, just yet…"

Ron shook his head. "You'd better not! Because it would get in the way of what's really important!"

Understanding dawned in her, and her father's lopsided grin appeared on her lips. "Don't worry! I'll be on a broomstick for most of the honeymoon. You know, Scorpius thinks he's hot stuff. Obviously he can't keep up, but I'll do my best to help him." Ron was beginning to look queasy, so putting on coy innocence she added, "Didn't Harry mention we were doing a flying tour across the continent? Whatever did you think I meant?"

"I think you meant to say that the best seeker in the world expects to be at the height of her powers for the Cup next summer, because her manager has been waiting nearly thirty years for another chance to showcase the true form of his most brilliant tactics. I'm not sure he's got it in him to wait for another generation to come of age."

"Why's it always fall to a Potter to save the country? Give me a break. You're not that old! Well, I mean, I guess you're as old as dad, which does make you old. But the only way you could stop him from working is by melting down every cauldron in Britain, snapping his wand, and then snapping his other wand." Now Rose looked a bit queasy. "Not, uh, that kind of wand. Don't even think about saying anything."

Ron guffawed. "It's your mum's influence. If only you knew him back when he was still uncorrupted… You would not believe how much homework we skived off back then. We all thought he was a kindred Weasley spirit. Then suddenly it was 'N.E.W.T. Potions this', and 'Charms Mastery that', and 'care to join us in the library Ron?', and 'oh, dreadfully sorry, quidditch practice must have slipped my mind entirely'. Slipped his mind! I'll never forget it."

"I know the feeling. Hugo spent enough time in the library for the both of us—plus you and every Weasley since your brother Percy. 'Do you think McGonagall will mind if I give her an extra five feet discussing this footnote in Mori's book where he mentions topological isomorphism in semicomplete Delacour space?' I mean…"

"What the fuck."

"Exactly. I forced him to write that one down so I could hold it over him for the rest of his life. How many times d'you reckon you'd have to bash his and Thea's heads together before they started talking like normal people?"

"Shame he never went in for quidditch. The bludger's a wonderful invention."

"You better not start getting any funny ideas for training." A glance past Ron's shoulder revealed Scorpius besieged by well-wishers. "I'm afraid I need to join Scorp before he's totally overwhelmed out there. If you'll excuse me…"

"Rosalind and Scorpius Malfoy," Hermione Granger said, as if testing the flavour on her tongue. "Between the two of them, they're already pushing it, aren't they? High time for another James, I'd say, something normal. We ought to put a word in before Draco tries to sell them on Canopus or Altair or some other such horrible nonsense. What do you think, mum?"

"I don't know if it's all Rose's doing, but thank god that Scorpius has learned a bit of taste. Those early days with the Malfoys were a bit of a trial."

"You know, I'd rather like an Elpis," supplied Luna Lovegood brightly. "Do you think Thea and Hugo might go for that?"

Hermione was not precisely ready to think about the apparent inevitability of a Potter/Longbottom child (by which she really meant a Granger/Lovegood child), so it was with relief that she saw Harry and Neville arrive with refreshments. All the more so when Luna decided to get up and wander off with her husband, probably in pursuit of some fanciful creature or plant (which she would probably find, not that Hermione told herself she cared). Seeing her mother's searching look snapped her out of this brief reverie. As so often after an hour in Luna's company, the word Huh? was written all over her face. "Elpis…" Hermione sighed, then explained. "Her mother was Pandora. Does it fit? Yes. Does it make sense? In twenty-first century English? Not in the slightest. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I suppose."

Her mother was far more in touch with the magical world now than she had been when Hermione was in school. Although the arrival of grandchildren had made her indispensable, to the harried parents and the little ones both, her involvement had already spiked years earlier. It was Hermione's fault, obviously. Her stupid, short sighted, badly planned, poorly thought out, and irresponsibly brilliant magical solution. Everything had looked so neat in theory: seal their memories, swap a few names, forget a daughter, ship them to Australia. Then afterwards, flip a switch and reverse the process. What could go wrong?

Harry took the seat just vacated by Luna. "You're thinking of him, aren't you?"

It was easy to tell oneself, in those heady days, that the one victory had won everything. She had been young and unstoppable and expected to proceed straight to her happily ever after. But defeating Voldemort had not restitched the fabric of the universe. Life remained stubbornly imperfect, to her perpetual consternation. Memory charms were complicated, devilishly so when performed on muggles, and she had not been professionally trained. Fortunately, her mother had responded well to the recovery procedure. Hermione had allowed herself to believe, for that one golden hour, that everything would go as planned. She recognised that her actions were a gross betrayal of trust, and had anticipated some degree of falling-out. Still. They had been at war, and she had done it to protect them, and they had always said they would do anything for her, and she loved them more than she could say. Surely that meant they were bound to hash out the differences of their reunion? Then she had tried to fix her father. At first, the gaps were only noticeable if you were looking for them. Until one afternoon, shortly after his fifty-third birthday, he asked his wife who she was. Their doctor diagnosed early-onset Alzheimer's. Extraordinary bad luck, they were told, considering their clean family history. Six years later, he was dead.

"Your dad would have been so proud of you," Rosaline added, peering into the horizon. "So happy for Rose."

Hermione would never know if she made a mistake in her amateur charmwork, or if her father's mind had been too rigid or too mundane or simply just too old to accept a second reinvention. Perhaps it really had been the mere bad luck of a muggle disease. But she would never forgive herself for what she'd done to Alan Granger. She probably would not have been able to come to terms with his illness at all—certainly not to the extent she had—without Harry's life-changing proposal. It came during a picnic in the Prater. She had been trying to feign interest as he extolled the continent's progressive attitudes on the study of blood magic. Vienna's Institut für Zauberkunst was the finest school of charms research in the world, and Harry Potter the finest boyfriend. Yet she was, despite everything, ruinously unhappy. Then Harry had given her the sort of look that was more than legilimancy, and casually suggested she abandon her whole program of spatial magic. The course he was taking on applied residue theory was exploring some fascinating new work with memory charms. He'd put in a word for her with the professor already. She could only stare at him in open-mouthed wonder, as her life turned on its head in the space of an instant.

"She's right about your dad. What was the one thing he never, ever forgot?"

"Rose and Hugo," Hermione whispered, returning to the present. She conjured a tissue and blew her nose. "How did you know? That I was thinking about him."

"Hmph," Rosaline scoffed, "Mothers always know. You had the look. That husband of yours was probably reading your mind, though."

"Please, mum, you know we don't do that."

"I know you don't need to do that. You two just can't help it, you just know, et-cet-er-a. Rather terrifying, frankly. I can't imagine many marriages would survive that much intimacy."

Harry chuckled. "The intimacy has been rather good, hasn't it?"

"Harry!" shrieked Hermione, covering her mouth reflexively. "That's my mum you're talking to! She means the lack of privacy!"

Before her husband—or worse, her mother—could continue this mortification, two young couples in the midst of their own teasing conversation stumbled into the group. "Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife: 'tis holy sport to be a little vain, for I see love hath made thee tame, snake." Hugo, it seemed, was taunting Scorpius.

"Tame?!" returned the bridegroom, in faux outrage. "You must be confusing some other snake with the pride of Slytherin."

A snort of derisive laughter stopped his presentation of the case. "Is not Gaunt dead," Thea flourished, barely restraining another snort, "and is not Harry true? Did not the one deserve to have an heir? That thereby beauty's rose might never die: I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry."

The first to cut into this byplay was Harry. "Surrounded by Ravenclaws! Again! Is there no escape? Do you people ever stop?!"

Hugo blinked, as if just realising they'd run into an occupied table, then addressed his father with barely stifled mirth. "Alright, for the record, I count one Snake, two Eagles, and three Lions. We Ravenclaws are clearly outnumbered, and no, mum does not count."

Rosaline was not to be left out of the game she had originated. "Oh, let me try. Let me think: ah! 'No further with your din express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.'"

"This is the very false gallop of verses," drolly observed Hermione. "Why do you infect yourself with them?"

"Neither of them counts!" interjected Thea, before Harry could renew his complaint.

"Doesn't matter," Rose declared, "seeing as Hugo and Thea surely count two each."

"Finally, someone who understands! Thank you! Do you guys want to sit down? Take the table. The three of us could probably do to stretch our legs. I should go find Luna. I promised her a chat earlier, but we keep missing each other."

"Harry's right. Come on mum. Let's find Neville so you can pick his brain about your garden. Unless you want to find Arthur, so he can pick your brain about wi-fi or whatever."

Rosalind Malfoy watched her parents and grandmother wander off, then sat heavily in one of the empty chairs. She had been on her feet all day long. Her shoes were killing her. Not even magic could make fashion comfortable! Why wasn't one of these Unspeakable Idiots working on that problem, instead of whatever complicated irrelevant shit they did instead? The two worst such offenders had also taken seats and were now chattering away at each other as if she and Scorpius weren't there.

Her ridiculous brother and his absurd girlfriend. Her hair was an elegant tangle tied with anise stems. Rose loved Thea for always loving Hugo—because if that otherworldly loveliness had been a rival, she would have fought her threat with tooth and nail. (And also because she couldn't help but want the best for her brother, though of course he did not deserve it.) His usual pitch black riot had for once, under the influence of an entire bottle of Sleekeazy's, been wrangled into a bun that was almost fashionable. She mastered the urge to diffindo the convenient target it presented. She didn't entirely trust her aim, at the moment. (And also because she loved it just as much on him as on her mum, not that she would ever admit it.)

"Hugo, you're so lucky I love your crazy hair as much as mum's. I was this close to chopping off that cute bun, it's such an inviting target." Oops, she thought. Drat.

Scorpius, as usual, was ready to swoop in and cover for her. "It's cute how it's so five years ago. If Hugo had showed up on-trend I wouldn't have known what to do. Immediately consulted him about the possibility of travel from alternate dimensions, I think?"

The proposal of interdimensional travel proved an irresistible distraction for the Ravenclaw duo. "The alternate dimension hypothesis is indeed firmly established. I've never seen anything like a credible modern account of such a traveler actually appearing, but there are many legends that feature the scenario. It's definitely possible they share a kernel of truth."

"It's not exactly my area, but Hugo's right. Alternate dimensions are an active field of study. The arithmancy is quite elegant, from what I understand, though I think they're still waiting for the stroke of genius that will pull it all together. It goes without saying that no one actually wants to try traveling. Who knows what reality you'd end up in?"

The last line caught Rose short. "Like, our parents might never have gotten together? Where would that leave us?"

"You know," Scorpius threw out, "I heard your mum once had a little thing for that brilliant manager of the national team you talk about so much…"

"Scorpius, since when do you believe everything your father says? Why do you feel compelled to repeat it like a total pillock?"

Before their first marital squabble could get off the ground, Hugo jumped in with an important caveat. "Thea also neglects to mention the part where the experiment would require a magical discharge on the order of 'dozens of cursed dark magic relics torched by dragonfire'. Good luck getting any ethics board to sign off on that."

"Sounds like a job for mum and dad. Actually, hold on. Neither of you ever mention this theory to mum. Between them, they could totally do it. I really, really don't want them to try."

"Rose, she's obviously known all about it since before we were born. What do you think people do in Charms Masteries?"

"I heard they don't play quidditch and then I pretty much stopped listening. What do you think people do when people talk about what they do in Charms Masteries? I'm getting another drink. I think the show's about to start."

"Hugo! Been looking for you all day. Your work with the centaur project has been exceptional. I can't imagine the Ministry's ever had such a good relationship with the herds before. Actually convincing the Taoiseach to parley is completely unprecedented. Not even Dumbledore could accomplish that! It's amazing progress, regardless of how much extra work it's given me."

He was greeted with a mock bow. "We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; and to thy worth will add right worthy gains."

"Do kindly shut up," the Minister for Magic replied, "or I'm cutting your department's budget and giving it to Games and Sports."

"The land is burning; Percy stands on high; and either we or they must lower lie," came Thea to her companion's defence. "Now what shall you threaten me with, I wonder?" She grinned broadly.

They were interrupted by a great shudder of feedback pulsing through the air, followed immediately by the flourish of a guitar. It was Teddy Lupin, thought by many the finest rock star since Stubby Boardman. (And naturally all true fans were aware of his late mother's connection to the Black family, and thereby his direct relation to the missing Hobgoblins frontman.) A metamorphmagus in full command of his abilities, Teddy's fingers spanned impossible intervals across his instrument. An extra pair of lungs ensured he never ran out of breath, whether on vocals or on brass, and his literally inimitable dance moves were made with effortless grace.

"Let's us take a spin while he thinks about it," Hugo shouted over the sudden frenzy, just as Thea rushed to grab his hand and drag him off toward the floor, where the newlyweds were taking up position for the first dance.

Teddy's magically amplified voice cut through the excitement. "Malfoys and other, lesser beings! Thanks to each and every one of you for making it out to the middle of nowhere. The hermits who own the place tell me they wanted to get away from society. Did they really have to do such a damn good job of it? But on a special occasion like this, we'll bring society to them. Even if I have to drag them out to meet it myself!

"But enough about them! What about the reason we're all here? I can't say how proud I am of little Rosie. For winning us the fuckin' World Cup!" There was applause and a few raucous cheers. Teddy leaned over and exchanged a word with his bassist. "Sorry, sorry, I've just been corrected. That apparently happens next year. I have got to stop listening to Lovegoods. We're really all here just because she married Scorpius? That's it? Haven't those two been married since they were like, thirteen years old? Made her parents look like amateurs to be honest." Laughter broke out across the assembly. "Don't you dare fucking laugh, Hugo. I saw that. I'd tease you a lot more about that girlfriend of yours if there were literally any chance of finding anyone else to take you. I will say, though, did you both have to go for dumb blondes? And not a Gryffindor in sight, for shame." The bassist leaned over again, and punched Teddy in the shoulder. "I've been reminded I should probably avoid cursing. If you or any of your small loved ones have been permanently scarred by my vocabulary, I believe there are several preeminent experts in the audience that you can consult about a memory charm.

"Anyway. Harry tells me I'm supposed to 'pull out all the stops.' Is there anyone here would dare cross Our Living Legend, The Boy Who Lives For Trouble, and The Only Healer in England I Trust to Cure My Hangover Tomorrow? Do I look like I have a death wish? I'm not just pulling out the stops. I'm gonna cast a goddamn vanishing charm on the stops!" A soft beat rose from the band, and Teddy gave a few quick strums. "Now give it up for the bride and the groom! They are Rosalind and Scorpius Malfoy, we are Robin and the Goodfellows—and it is time to get loud, get down, and d-d-d-dance!" Scorpius gave his bride a delirious twirl as music exploded across the grounds.

Hugo and Thea were dancing in the thick of it. Teddy and his band had run through the hits of five generations, and were now working a high-energy groove of their own music. The dancefloor was still crowded, though many of the older guests had retreated to rest their aging limbs at the reception tables.

"Thea, I've got to say, you do look particularly beautiful today."

"Huh!? What'd you say? Why are you whispering? I can't hear you over the music!"

Hugo shifted into a stage whisper, and tried again: "Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason, for stealing moulds from heaven that were divine."

Thea shot him a look. "Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, revel the night, and commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways?" At this conspiratorial remark, she took his hand and dragged him from the floor back to their seats. "You were saying?"

Hugo took a large sip from the wineglass that had conveniently appeared at his plate. "These summer-flies have blown me full of maggot ostentation: I do foreswear them." Thea was watching him closely. "By mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Cyn. With all my heart. By true honour, in my English, I love you, Thea. With everything I am."

"I know. Of course—yes! My answer's in this broken music. I love you, Hugo Evan Potter. So fucking much. You know I love our silly games, but it's you I love the best. You, yourself, and all your own dumb words."

"What would I have done without you? Who would I have been, without you there to push me and encourage me? I would have coasted. It's obvious from their stories that that's what dad would have done without mum. Everyone assumes I'm exactly like her, but honestly? Honestly, I think I might be more like him. Rose has always been the driven one, with all that quidditch fanaticism. Fucking Merlin! I might have ended up in quidditch!"

"You're saying I could have had a quidditch star, if only I had waited a few years to make a move on you?" Thea simpered at him. "But I knew that already." Here she gave her true smile. "Why do you think I befriended you when I did? It was for both our sakes. Because I couldn't imagine spending so much time with anyone else. Whether that's debating wandlore, or trekking with my parents into whatever forsaken wilderness, or learning runic Setswana on a lark, or burning dinner for our friends at home. Discovering magic. Remember when you first showed me your big thesis idea? How you said Binnsian phenomenology would revolutionise the interpretation of centaur history, and how that would upend everything we thought we knew about their society?

And then it did? I'm so lucky to have you. Even if you still don't believe me about the Atlantean ley-line nexus, or its significance toward a fundamental theory of the Sight—"

"Hey, you know as well as I do that Zoticus is full of shit! And metastable lattice percolation is not a well-founded conjecture! Even Croaker agrees that this double-random interlacement approach of yours is a dead end. Mum told me."

"Zoticus might have been a charlatan but he wasn't an idiot. As for Croaker, he's completely out of touch. He's coasting on runic arithmancy from fifty years ago. Temporal instability has always been the most credible framework, it's just that people didn't have the language to see how Atlantis fit into the argument. I am totally going to convince Hermione and then she is going to convince Croaker. I have it on good authority, in fact. Also," she paused to drain her cocktail, "shut up Hugo. Don't distract me, I'm trying to say something important. When I'm with you it's like … like Shakespeare says, I guess. Like I'm made of passion or like I'm made of wishes. I'm all fantasy. Patience and impatience all at once. How can I put this in my own words? You make me more than myself. You make me think love is a depth of feeling. But then I just can't stop myself from thinking the deepest depth is an abyss. It terrifies me sometimes.

"Hugo, there's something I have to confess. It's embarrassing and I'm ashamed of it and I thought I could keep it secret from you, and now that makes me feel even guiltier." Thea sucked in a great breath, shuddering a little. "I asked mum. About us, about our future. She's never mentioned anything to me, you know, not even once. Care to guess what she said when I asked? Nothing. She refused to say a single word. All she did was smile. Then I realised: that was her answer, that was the answer." She fought a sob and her eyes shone brightly. "O, Hugo!—how could I have doubted?"

Her lover replied simply. "You are like no one else: an entirely unique miracle." Yet this simple truth was not enough, not now, not with her eyes all over silver. Pinprick asterisms shimmered in their grey light. There are things which cannot be said in words. So he kissed her in the soft dusk gloam.

Harry and Hermione were watching the dancing from a safe distance.

"I still can't believe she wanted the same ridiculous flowers that I let Neville convince us to use at ours."

"They were perfect for us because they were ridiculous. And they were perfect for Rose because … because she's ours, isn't she? She's us, she's the best of us. They're the best of us."

Hermione thought of their daughter's unwavering empathy, that clear-eyed refusal to judge a boy for what his parents had done. Of their son's prankster spirit, bookish and recondite and therefore completely harmless. Their genius and their beauty. She understood that she was quite biased; which, strangely enough, had never once bothered her. "They are the best of each of us."

"They are what we could have been in a happier world. Where I never had to fly from demons and the only cry I heard from my broom was the roar of the crowd. Where you could have read all the books with all the Ravenclaws, except Defensive Magical Theory, which never graced a classroom. Where the Marauder's Map was used for mischief and that old cloak for snogs. Where we never had to hide from fame and smoothly embraced the public life."

"That's because they have a happier world. A happier world that you gave them, Harry Potter."

"That we gave them, love."

In the celebrated mind of Hermione Granger, there were only a few moments she bothered to preserve with complete fidelity. A scrawny boy with his wand dripping snot, whom she later sent into the fire with a secret swallowed word. Clinging desperately to him, eyes closed, as the ground fell away and her stomach lurched and she felt everything. All those eyes on her as she descended the stair, among them the only pair that had ever mattered (their green depths inexorable), as she had barely dared to hope. The first time he left a date for her, and the first time he left on a date with her. Their impossible victory. A tearful confession, and a happy one. A kiss, and a kiss, and a kiss, and a kiss, and each one different, and each one perfect. The petrifying terror of their first time, all the tension of an instant absolute and entire—and that pure raw joy. The Prater glowing green, then Puchberg in a blizzard of white. Their wedding, their children, and now this. Her daughter's happiness, her husband's words, love everywhere, and her face streaked with tears. She clutched his hand. She sniffled and swiped at her eyes, heedless of her makeup. It was worth it. It was worth it all, all their sacrifices, the years of struggle, all they'd fought and lost, just to make this one moment happen. And she knew that Harry beside her felt the same.

"Mum," said a soft voice come crouching at her ear, "are you managing alright? With the crowd?" Her lovely son. He understood her almost best of all, with just the one singular exception. "How about one dance each, with me and Rose and dad?"

Harry Potter watched another round of guests make their way to the broom-shed, whence they would portkey away. Most had by now dispersed, some to their own homes, others to continue the party elsewhere. His children had taken their closest circle up into the house. One of them should have noticed by now he'd left the cabinet with his best—Sirius' best—liquor unlocked. The no-fly wards were still active over the property and would forestall the drunken quidditch that his maniac daughter had been plotting since her arrival, so it was safe. Mostly. Probably. You never could be sure, not with Sirius involved.

Neville broke the amiable silence that had descended over their group to broach an open-ended question. "Who remembers the Hogwarts Express?"

"Whatever do you mean? Did something happen to it? Are they finally letting the thestrals manage the entire journey?" replied his confused, albeit intrigued, wife.

Hermione restrained the impulse to sarcasm. "I think Neville is asking about the events that took place on the train when we were students. And yes, Neville, of course. Where would we be without Trevor? I'd never have crossed paths with Harry and Ron on the Express. Perhaps I would have made a completely different first impression—what if we would never have become friends?"

"Ah, in that case I'm afraid I cannot say I remember the Hogwarts Express. It would have been quite impossible, considering I was busy at the time writing Professor Dumbledore's article on Fudge's heliopath army for the September Quibbler." She paused. "That still doesn't sound quite right though, Hermione."

Before Hermione could further succumb to her argumentative impulses, Harry returned the conversation to its original track. "The oculus reparo was great and all, Hermione, and your consideration for Neville's toad was sweet, but honestly? Our first meeting was not that important. Unless you think Ron spent two months nursing a grudge about sunshine, daisies, butter mellow before he took it out on you for wingardium leviosa. You were always going to be brilliant and special, Ron was always going to be a bit of an arse, and I was always going to have a near-death experience on Halloween."

"I think the point," Draco interposed smoothly, "is more to wonder at the discrepancy between our conduct and relationships then, as dunderheaded eleven year olds making our first trip to Hogwarts, and those we have now, as gracefully aging parents sitting together at our children's wedding. Though I wouldn't mind if either of you wanted to play out the whole episode of Weasley's first spell again. That one never gets old."

"Then for its sequel, maybe Harry can recount your own charming appearance in his carriage? You're right, though. I do so fondly recall sending you to the Hospital Wing with a single punch. And have I thanked you recently for helping me get my teeth fixed? You were also responsible, of course, for opening me up to a certain bit of incisive vocabulary. Neither ought we to forget—"

Neville cut her off. "Uh, maybe we should change topics? It's my fault, I'm sorry. I know it's an emotional night for the three of you especially. I suppose this excellent Château Flamel has me in a nostalgic mood. You know, I might see if Sapworthy over at Beauxbatons could put in a word for me. Even the best vineyard would benefit from my expertise, after all."

The group allowed this peace offering to settle over them, retracting their sharper instruments of wit, the fragrant summer evening balm to their frayed nerves. Some scars cannot be vanished, not by magic or by time, but mark us for ever. So it was with these old disputes: dragged out, poured over, inspected and interrogated, yet also essentially signs of healing. After a suitable period of calm, Hermione ventured the most important question in her smallest voice. "Do you think they'll be okay?"

It was Harry she looked to, and it was Harry who answered her. "The ferret's still here, isn't he? I was prepared, for years, to hide his body every time he came to visit us." He caught a flicker of horror in the ex-Death Eater's pallid face. "Oh, come on, Draco, don't act so surprised. Those two kids somehow managed to get the two of you to coexist this long without bloodshed—er, further bloodshed. Shouldn't the rest be easy after that? Besides, if Scorpius ever steps out of line, I'm sure Hermione will happily murder you, right before moving on to him. Seems a pretty good incentive, if you ask me, not that he should need one."

Harry exhaled, leaned back, and allowed the scene to wash over him. His children, successful and passionate and happy, confidently reshaping the world (and in his son's case, he suspected, magic itself) to their liking. His friends, gathered here to refresh their ties, the ongoing work of reconciliation (if not forgiveness, exactly) unfolding precarious as always. This was the home the Potters had made in the Staffordshire countryside. The land the inheritance of his ancestors, the house the work of himself and his wife and eventually their children too—his family. Draco and Scorpius, Luna and Neville and Thea, Teddy and Victoire, and the whole host of Weasleys. Old Saul Croaker and Manasa Patil, Filius and Hagrid. Rosaline and Alan, before he'd passed, as likewise with Minerva and Andromeda and Astoria. They counted even still. Just as Sirius and Remus, Tonks and Fred, Dumbledore and Snape all counted. And, of course, his parents. Together they made up a community that Harry and Hermione had managed to find and to cultivate, in which they could be themselves, as they were and as they had had to be. He had fought no more grand duels with soi-disant Dark Lords, had never raided a covert terrorist cell with his wand ablaze, had tracked no fugitive to the ends of the earth. He had not flown for England, nor even Puddlemere United. Harry Potter had long ago abandoned these old dreams. In their place he had built this dwelling. He had found, here, a way to live and means to share it. This life of peace: modest stillness, and humility. It was enough for him. For it had given him everything he had ever truly desired.

Then Luna chimed in breezily, as if it meant nothing and yet also everything, "I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: to you they have show'd some truth. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured and the sad augurs mock their own presage. All's well."

The title is taken from HENRY V: "In peace there's nothing so becomes a man / As modest stillness and humility" (III. 1. 3–4). Other plays and poems are quoted throughout, in free combination and recombination. The names are chosen/tweaked on purpose, mostly for mythological and/or Shakespearean reasons, while the arithmantic research language is of course semicomplete nonsense. The brief discussion of alternate dimensions pays tribute to Kayly Silverstorm's astonishing "STAGES OF HOPE", which is the story I hope that you read next. (After leaving me a comment 3 :)