A/N: So, this is it! The end of the story! Thank you for sticking with it until the end! I really hope you've enjoyed it! Thank you also to all the people who commented! It was highly appreciated! Please note that you can download the fic on Ao3, and also see the gorgeous drawings Iwao did for the fic! 3

EPILOGUE

"Take me into your loving arms
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars
Place your head on my beating heart
Thinking out loud
That maybe we found love right where we are."
Ed Sheeran - Thinking Out Loud

- DRACO -

Six months later
The pale midday sun filtering through the diamond-paned windows isn't enough to bring warmth to my body, and I have to cast yet another Warming Charm as I stride towards the east wing of Malfoy manor.

Walking through the long corridors brings back many memories, both good and bad. I take my time, my feet finding their way easily through the familiar maze of large, lifeless rooms.

The hardest part is visiting my former quarters, and particularly, my bedroom. I unconsciously slow my pace as I walk closer to my goal. I take in each and every single detail of my surroundings: the Persian carpet running the length of the corridor, the mahogany tables on which Mother would place a fresh bouquet of lilies, peonies, or white roses - depending on the season - every day. As my fingers brush the dusty furniture, I can almost smell the heady scent from my childhood, escorting me all the way to my bedroom.

I place my hand on the doorknob and take a deep breath, closing my eyes and counting to twenty. It's only the second time since I got my childhood home back that I venture into this area of the manor.

The first time was right after the trials.

The trials had been just that. A trial. It was pretty awful. Seeing the men that had stolen a part of my life, an important part of my past, hurt me more than I had anticipated. But I held on; I kept my head high until the end and listened to what they had to say. I refused to judge their actions; that was the role of the Wizengamot, after all. I simply listened, and stored information in a remote area of my brain. I remember the intense feeling of relief that had washed over me upon hearing the sentence - ten years in Azkaban for Burbage, eight for the others. It should have been more, much more than that, in my opinion, but the Wizengamot was never able to prove that abuse and memory alteration had a direct link with the deaths of some of the prisoners, including my father. I had to close my eyes and take deep breaths. Harry's hand gently found mine and he laced our fingers together. Finally, this sombre part of my life was over; I was allowed to move on.

It took a month after the end of the trials for me to gain full access to my vaults again; another three weeks before finally reclaiming the family estate. And another couple of weeks to gather the courage to actually go there. Harry had offered to come with me, of course, but I had declined; it was something I needed to do on my own.

Now I am back again, on this cold day, pushing open the door to my former bedroom for the second and very last time.

I take my time to examine the testimonies of a past I feel estranged from, like the rocking-chair my mother used to sit in to read me bedtime stories. I remember how I would snuggle on her lap and listen to fascinating stories about dragons, dangerous deeds and glorified wizards who always managed to save the day. I close my eyes and can almost smell the faint flowery scent of my mother's skin, right in the crook of her neck. Even years after her death, I still crave her comforting touch.

My eyes then move to the beautiful ornate desk I would spend hours drawing at as a child. Right above it, on the wall, are still the faded traces of Sticking Charms (not Permanent ones, Father would not have allowed it) holding the cards of my favourite Quidditch players. I remember being particularly in awe of an Australian Chaser called Matthew Echunga; I was fascinated by him, collecting articles about him that I kept in a folder under my pillow. Years later, I would use the very same folder to keep my mother's letters - the ones she had written to me when Father was in Azkaban. I haven't been able to retrieve them, unfortunately. They were lost after the war, and now only exist in my memories.

And then, there's the rug on which I used to play Dragons with Goyle. I smile at the recollection - not so ancient in my mind, as I've revisited the memory in the Pensieve quite recently. When I was little, the rug had seemed enormous, and I would sprawl on it, tangle my fingers in the thick wool and invent stories. Most of the time, I was a wizard who had been stranded on an island, but other times I imagined I stood on a giant cloud on which I had landed because my broom had gone too high. I loved this rug. The house-elves would often find me asleep on it. Of course, now it's all dusty and moths have feasted on it; it doesn't look like much.

Still, I sit on it, running my fingers affectionately in it, trying to recapture the sensation of the innocence I've lost. So many things have happened since I last sat on this rug, so much has changed. I let out a deep sigh.

There. What's done is done. No regrets. I am done with this room; I am done with this house.

I go to get up, but when I press my hand to the carpet for balance, a floorboard creaks under my body weight. I freeze before applying pressure again. The same creaking noise arises as something beneath my hand…

It all comes back to me at once. I spring to my feet and pull the carpet a few feet away. A gigantic cloud of dust puffs in the air, but I cast a quick Tergeo with my wand and it vanishes. I bring my attention back to the now bare hardwood flooring and there it is; a slightly larger crack in between two floorboards. My fingers hastily start working on it, my heart racing as I manage to remove the loose floorboard, revealing a rectangular hole the size of a small Kneazle. And inside it, still untouched after all these years, the box.

I take it out with trembling fingers and gently blow on it, removing the thin layer of dust that has somehow managed to make its way through the interstices of the floor. I can still feel the wards keeping the box locked, but I don't have to remember any of the spells. As I take my wand in hand again, it seems to move on its own, my fingers finding their way through the spells as if I'd locked it yesterday. The box opens with a little click and I lift the lid.

I tremble in excitement as I unearth little treasures from my past: my prefect's badge, tickets from the Quidditch World Cup, a Devil's Kiss chocolate wrapper, and a note from Pansy on a small piece of paper, similar to the one I had in my cell, reading: 'I believe in you.' There are also a couple of large badges. I can't help the smile forming on my lips as I take one of them in hand. I remember the insane hours I had spent Charming those badges to have them change from Support CEDRIC DIGGORY - the REAL Hogwarts Champion! to the utterly creativePOTTER STINKS . I run my fingers over the badge, still flickering - albeit feebly - after all these years, and pick up the second one.

This one is slightly different. I must have made a dozen of those badges to supply all the students who, just like me, had been irritated at the time by Harry's obvious cheating to get his name into the Goblet - or so I thought. Of course, now, I know better. However, in the process of making these badges, a few of them went wrong; some wouldn't change to POTTER STINKS, others would remain desperately blank. I got rid of all the botched ones, and kept only one, the one I am holding in my hand. That one simply reads: Support POTTER - The REAL Hogwarts Champion! I bring it to my lips, holding it against them briefly before setting it on the floor next to the rest of the objects.

The box is now empty but for one last item that I take in my hand with great care. I caress the soft brown cover of the parchment folder, running my fingers on my name delicately embossed in it. The scent of dragon hide is still very potent after all these years as I close my eyes for a few seconds and let its smell take me back in time. I had received this folder as a gift from my parents on my eleventh birthday, right before starting Hogwarts.

Again, it is not difficult for me to remove the few wards that my… what, sixteen, seventeen year old self… had set. After a light tap on the cover with the tip of my wand, I slide my finger underneath and open the folder.

It's funny how I am not even surprised to find the dozen clippings from the Prophet. Every single one of them is about Harry, and a thrill runs through me as I see his youthful face staring at me. The articles cover several years. The last one dates back to March, 1998.

I take my time reading passages from the articles, smiling in places, my heart aching in others, like when I read about Harry being called 'disturbed and dangerous.' I discard the articles on the floor.

The last item in the folder is a simple piece of parchment, torn at the edges. A huge smile forms on my lips as my eyes wander over my own handwriting covering it. I most certainly wrote it during a boring class; Slughorn's probably.

It isn't poetic. It isn't even remotely literary. But it comes from the heart. It reads:

POTTER.
POTTER POTTER POTTER POTTER
POTTER POTTER POTTER POTTER
POTTER POTTER POTTER POTTER
POTTER POTTER POTTER POTTER
POTTER POTTER POTTER POTTER
I HATE YOU, POTTER.
I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU.
I HATE YOU. POTTER.
I HATE YOU.
I…
YOU…
POTTER.

It's wonderful how sometimes it's just the little things that push you in the right direction. I point my wand at the items spread upon the floor and they fly back into the box. I Shrink it and tuck it in the inside pocket of my robe.

I get up and walk to the door, pausing a few seconds to take a long last look at the room, my hand on the door frame.

And then that's it. I descend the stairs swiftly, somehow lighter, the feeling of accomplishment strong inside of me.

I'm half-way down the grand staircase when I see him, looking so small and vulnerable from this height that it makes my heart flip. I look at him, waiting for me by the front door and I smile.

I join him and take him in my arms from behind.

"Let's go home," I murmur in his ear.

"Home?" He places his hand on mine.

"Yes, our home."

He turns his head so fast to look at me that I'm afraid he's hurt himself. "Do you- Are you serious?" he says in a breath.

"It's high time, don't you think?" I smile.

"But what about…" He frowns. I can't blame him. I've told him so many times that I wasn't ready to move back in with him, that it was too soon, that I needed time, that I needed to be stronger… Of course, he has doubts. "What about all this?" he says, gesturing to the large hallway.

I shake my head. "This is not my home anymore. It belongs… I don't know to whom it belongs now, but it's not my home anymore. My home is where you are." I have to stop talking before I turn into a total sap.

He crushes his mouth on mine and kisses me long and hard. My arms are full of him, and no matter how many times we touch and kiss, it never fails to send a thrill down my spine. He pulls back, still locked in my embrace, and looks at me with an awe I'm pretty sure I don't deserve. I hope to maintain the illusion as long as I can, though.

"Let's go," I say.

"Home," he adds, a stupid proud smile on his face.

"I think we've already established that, you goof."

"I know, but it feels good to say it again." He's still beaming ridiculously.

I roll my eyes. "Really."

He places a last quick kiss on my lips and takes my arm. "Ready, then?"

This is it. Another chapter of my life. I take a deep breath. "Ready."

I tighten my hold on Harry's arm, and close my eyes.

~The End. ~