Turn DRARRY

Chapter Fourteen: Epilogue

31st December 2018

The midday sun is warm on Harry's face as he leans against the kitchen counter, relishing the perfect drinking temperature of his cup of tea and forgetting about all the things he is supposed to be doing.

Basking in a little pool of contentment, he closes his eyes and inhales the fragrant steam, the scent of the beeswax Draco uses to polish the long oak table and the faint aroma of long-gone bacon sandwiches. Above him, the old floorboards creak as Draco wanders around upstairs doing things that Harry will never truly understand—checking, ordering, mumbling to himself. Harry smiles.

It doesn't seem to matter that Draco doesn't officially live here. The inevitable combination of Lucius Malfoy's ruined health and Draco's fierce family loyalty means that things are a little complicated to say the least, but they manage, all of them, and it's good. It's fine. He frequently recalls Neville's sheepish description of 'that funny stage' of a relationship and is torn between empathy and laughter, because really, there was never going to be anything straightforward about any of this. In truth, he hasn't any more of an idea of what he's doing than Neville, but he doesn't mind. Things haven't been nearly as awkward as he had feared; he and Draco are managing—tentatively and circuitously at times—to talk, something that he and Ginny never really got the hang of.

Harry gulps at his tea and sighs, opening his eyes and gazing at the tiled floor, where Misu is snoozing in a patch of sunlight. He has learned, one way or another, that keeping one's feelings to oneself rarely makes anything easier in the long run, and Draco... well, Draco is still Draco, still a Malfoy, and he's never going to be an open book, but he's also thirty-eight, divorced, a father, and, as he puts it, 'too bloody old for playing idiotic games'. He is, too, Harry thinks. They both are.

Draco stays most nights, travelling to work from Harry's still-not-quite-fully-renovated townhouse and Flooing over to the Manor at regular intervals to relieve his mother and catch up with her over tea and little sandwiches, a years-old ritual of which Harry remains quietly envious. Narcissa herself has remained stoic and utterly graceful, seemingly delighted by the continued presence of Harry in her son's life.

Perhaps more hopeful still has been the arrival of a friendly, curly-haired young man named Hamish, who has become a fixture in Lucius' wing of the Manor over the last few months. Narcissa, hesitant at first, has at last begun to enjoy some freedom, safe in the knowledge that her husband's secret will not be shared with the world. Hamish, a living advertisement for Hufflepuff house, if Harry has ever seen one, deals with Lucius' needy moments, confusion, pain and hissy fits with laid-back equanimity.

"He is coming," Misu advises, glass tail clinking against the tile as she stirs.

Harry listens for a moment, seeking out the creaking of the stairs. "So he is."

A second or two later, Draco steps into the kitchen, takes one look at Harry and raises his eyes to the ceiling.

"You're still here."

Harry blinks, puzzled by his exasperation, but only for the second or two it takes him to remember that he promised to leave for Diagon Alley some time ago, to pick up the supplies for their New Year's Eve party. It's not his fault. Tea and sunshine are very distracting.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"I'll just go myself, shall I?" Draco says airily, tapping his fingers lightly on the counter.

"No, I'll go, I'm going now," Harry protests, setting down his cup and shaking himself out of his comfortable little reverie. "I promised I'd take the kids."

"I doubt your children want to be dragged around the shops with you," Draco says, opening the cupboard and poking around for his favourite tea mug.