Ten years later

“Didn’t Rosie look marvellous?” says Ron.

He’s had a little more champagne than is good for him and—with his hair tousled, his bow tie unravelled and his shirt collar unbuttoned—he looks disarmingly like the young boy Hermione had fallen in love with all those years ago.

“And Scorpius looked handsome,” she says.

“Well...”

“He’s your son-in-law now,” she chides, but she’s laughing, “and I happen to know that you’re really quite fond of him.”

“Well, if he’s chosen our Rosie, he must have some good qualities.”

“He’s a nice, polite boy,” says his mother, with all the finality of the Wizengamot pronouncing sentence—and Ron’s expression shows that he concedes defeat.

Hermione squeezes his arm affectionately and, leaving him in Molly’s care, she scans the room, looking for Scorpius’s father.

...

The ballroom of Malfoy Manor is hung with drifts of champagne-coloured silk, its windows draped with coral pink velvet, its long wooden tables dressed with a riot of pink roses tumbling from silver scorpion-shaped planters.

Still slightly disturbed by that particular piece of symbolism, Hermione threads her way through the wedding guests, smiling stiffly—as she passes—at the mother of the groom, who is sitting, with her usual elegant poise, between a slightly tipsy Narcissa and an impassive Lucius.

She spots Malfoy standing in one of the window bays—a tall, lonely, black-clad figure, staring out into the night. His beloved son has just set off on his honeymoon, she thinks. He must be feeling as old and uprooted as I am.

She skirts a knot of merry-making Potters, and joins him at the window.

“I’m so proud of him, Granger,” he says as she approaches.

She doesn’t bother to ask how he knows it’s her. “Of course you are,” she says, laying a supportive hand on his arm. “And I’m proud of my daughter.”

“I know.”

She hears him take a deep breath, and release it slowly, and she knows him well enough to recognise that he’s struggling to master some very profound emotions.

She gives him time.

“Did you like the doves?” he asks, at last.

“They were wonderful.” She smiles. “The doves, the carriage, the fireworks—all of it was magical, Malfoy, in the Muggle sense of the word. It was a fairy-tale wedding. You couldn’t have given them anything better.”

“I did it for you—at least half of it was for you.”

Beneath her hand he feels strong and hard. At forty-six he’s still muscular, and there’s not an ounce of extra flesh on his body. She glances round the room. They’re partially screened by one of the floral arrangements—and, besides, no one is taking any notice of them—so she moves a little closer, and she murmurs, “Shall we go somewhere more private, Malfoy?”

“And then...?” he asks.

“And then,” she replies, huskily, “I want you inside me.”

He smiles, and she watches his eyes dart to Astoria, to his parents, and to Ron, before he leans towards her, and—with a welcome gleam of mischief in those pale grey eyes—asks, “Again?”

“It must be something about weddings,” she says, innocently.

“You,” he says, slipping his arms around her waist, “are a wanton,”—kiss—“woman,”—kiss—“Mrs Malfoy.”

T H E  E N D

...

Epilogue

She sinks into his arms, laying her head upon his chest, and she’s just drifting off to sleep when he wakes her with a pat on her bottom.

“You know, Granger, we’re really not too old.”

“You speak for yourself,” she sighs. At the moment, she feels like she’s run a marathon. “Oh, Merlin, Draco, we have to get back to the ballroom. People are going to start missing their host and hostess...”

She lifts her head, looking for her discarded robes and, as she spots them in tatters beside the door, a question occurs to her. “Too old for what, Malfoy?”

“A baby,” he says. “A Granger-Malfoy baby.”