𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 2008

Take A Sad Song (And Make It Better)

Title: Take A Sad Song (And Make It Better)
Team: Epilogue
Author: femmequixotic
Prompt: Judgment
Wordcount: 45,425
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: The last thing Harry wants is to lose his kids.

The turntable needle dragged across the surface of the record with soft, muted thumps of diamond against vinyl for a moment before the quiet strum of the guitar echoed through the almost empty flat.

Harry fell back against the worn planks of the floor, staring up at the mildewed moulding that edged the bay window and circled the top of the sitting room walls. A draft swept over the stretch of skin between his jumper and the waistband of his jeans. He shivered. "Yesterday," he whispered, letting the music slide over him, "all my troubles seemed so far away..."

He took a slow drag off the cigarette in his fingers, breathing in the bitter smoke, rolling it around his tongue before he blew out a perfect ring. It drifted up against the ceiling and faded away.

Toenails clicked across the wooden floor and Godric, his beagle, thumped down next to him with a heavy sigh. He nuzzled up beneath Harry's arm, laying his head on his chest, and blinked up at him.

"Hey, boy," Harry murmured, and he let his hand rest on Godric's head for a moment. At least Ginny'd let him keep the dog, although Harry was pretty damn certain it was because she'd always hated walking him before bed.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said with a sigh as she set a bag of clothes down on top of a stack of boxes. They were filled with old Quidditch magazines and ratty albums that still smelled of dust and curry like the secondhand shop in Islington Harry had purchased them from.

It'd been just a block away from his house.

Harry watched bare tree branches sway upside-down in the wind outside the window, black against a dreary January sky. Rain slid down the glass; late afternoon light filtered wetly through, grey and cold. He hadn't even bothered with a heating charm or a proper fire in the hearth.

The Floo sputtered and coughed weakly and another bag skittered across the room, smacking into Harry's foot. He could hear Ron's angry, if muffled, shout through the open connection and Ginny's tight Christ, Ron, just leave him be, will you please? before the Floo clanged closed again and the fire settled back to embers.

"At least it's not the White Album," he said finally, and he twisted his fingers in the thick wool of his jumper. A fingertip poked through one of the cable-knit columns. "Or Exile on Main Street, I suppose."

"Let's avoid the Stones, shall we?" Hermione dropped down next to Harry, pulling her knees to her chest. She took the cigarette from him and stubbed it out in the saucer—already filled with ashes and cigarette butts. With her hair twisted back in a loose knot, a few stray curls falling around her face, she looked younger than her forty-two years. Only the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes betrayed her age. She smoothed Harry's fringe back from his forehead, her fingers featherlight against his scar.

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play, Paul mourned, and the record skipped on a scratch, catching for a moment.

"I'll make some tea, shall I?" Hermione said finally, her voice thick.

Harry caught her wrist before she could get up. "Don't." A branch slammed against the side of the building, scraping across brick and glass. He turned his head and pressed his cheek into Hermione's thigh. "I've cocked up, haven't I?"