Many thanks to nobodysperfect2133 for your very kind review.

A/N: I realise there should probably have been some Healers present in this chapter, but as this is a fun story I'll take poetic licence and skim over the fact.

***chapter 10***

***Final Chapter***

***Three!***

...And that was when he saw…

...The daffodils

In a muggle style vase beside the bed. Bright as the sunlight, quiet as the dawn. Criss-crossed in a vase far too big for a sparse crowd of three, leaning with their heads down over the side as if they didn't quite know how they got there and were rather embarrassed about the whole affair, while the water they stood in playfully caught a sun-ray or two, or three or four, and sparkled merrily as diamonds.

And all around still, through the shouts and thuds and commotion, that terrifying wailing...

"Three, Mr Malfoy," Eldest Granger murmured. Then, much, much louder. "Three!"

Lily paused in the act of dancing a rather subdued, baby-elephant-stepped dance, in polite acknowledgement of current circumstances, to pout. "I'm not three. I'm nearly four. Hugo's three." She wrinkled her nose as though being aged three was an affront to anyone's delicate senses.

"I'm not free. My Dad says I cost him thousands of galleons in shoes every year," Hugo declared proudly,

"Oh, I cost well more than that, Hu." Albus said smugly. "When I tell my Mum and Dad my theories about stuff they always say I'm priceless so I'm prob'ly worth millions of galleons by now."

"Free. Who is really free?" James struck up a dramatic pose. "Am I free? Are we free? Are they free?"

A hand was pressed into Draco's, Small, trusting, needing reassurance. "Dad, Dad, what are we going to do?" Scorpius's question wavered with tearful anxiety.

Another hand was pressed into his then. This one small and trusting too, but reassuring him. Definitely Lieutenant Granger. For they were all gathered around the bed, the Scary Six and himself. And the wailing still assailing his ears.

In the midst of the madness, he could have sworn he heard his name being spoken. And, even more oddly, a chuckle. He knew he was definitely imagining things, however, when he heard Astoria's voice. "Well, I didn't pay for them, James, but I should imagine they're going to cost us heaps."

"Tori." Draco took in the startling scene and found his voice at last. Although it sounded so croaky, and his throat was so choked, and his mouth so dry, it was a miracle he found it at all. "How did it happen?"

Now, Astoria had known Draco ever since their Hogwarts days. It was perhaps unsurprising that she should have acquired some of his mannerisms. She arched an amused eyebrow with Malfoy perfection. "Draco, if you don't know how babies get here by now..."

"I do! I do!" Hugo did the jumping-up-and-down-waving-hand-in-the-air move that all the six were prone to, and which always baffled Draco. "The owl brings them."

"Don't. Be. So. Stupid." Lily pronounced each word with disdain. "The Wise Witch throws them down to witches from her broomstick and if they catch one they get to keep it. Wow!" A sudden thought struck her. "Scorpius, your Mum should play for Harpies like my Mum! I think my Mum must throw most of them back, though," she added, after a moment's reflection; "she only ever takes one at a time."

"You're stupid as well, Lily," James observed loftily. "That's not how babies get here. What happens is, a witch and a wizard fly on a broomstick together, and they..."

"Three!" The lanky wizard interrupted the peculiar birds-and-bees conversation to join in everybody's favourite chorus albeit in his croaky, almost-lost voice. "Three!"

He sat down on the bed as he spoke, accidentally pulling with him Scorpius, Rose and a certain little wizard, who mysteriously seemed to have once more become attached to his sleeve. And as three little Potters didn't want to miss out, they climbed on too. It was very crowded on that bed, but nobody seemed to be very worried about it, especially as the new father at least had presence enough of mind to cast an engorgio charm.

"Three," Astoria confirmed. She looked remarkably well and seemed remarkably relaxed for someone who had recently given birth, but then that was because...ah, wait! I think I'll keep that knowledge to myself for a short while longer.

Her husband could only stare helplessly, not knowing whether to laugh, cry, take his wife in his arms (if he could reach past the human traffic congestion, that was) or take the three brand new infants in his arms (if he could possibly reach them) or whether to say something profound or something romantic or something witty (the latter conundrum being somewhat immaterial, his almost-lost voice now suddenly being hopelessly lost). And his emotions! For emotions that had once been so carefully compartmentalised, it was a shocking betrayal. A rush of love, terror, confusion, pride, joy, awe, anticipation, apprehension...the list went on and on, and each and every one mirrored in his expressions so vividly that Hugo pondered on whether there was another wall His Friend's Dad wished to communicate with.

And so it was Astoria who spoke first, her words neither profound nor romantic nor witty either, but a question which I am quite, quite sure is rarely asked of a new parent: "Why is there a box on your head?"

Damn. He'd forgotten about the sticking charm and the ummmaaaah business. Thankfully, the Scary Six seemed to have decided to abandon forever their imaginary creatures. Casting a spell to transport the box into a corner of the ward, the Slytherin grimaced and made a circular motion with his hand to indicate the play-daters. Astoria's twitching lips must have given him courage anew, for his missing voice returned to the fold to ask, alarmed by their significance, "Why are there just three sorry-looking daffodils in a vase by your bed?"

"Magic, I think." Astoria smiled, giving him their special look. The one that meant so many things to each and took them away to their own special world. But weird world beckoned once more.

"Mum, Mum, Dad, Dad." Scorpius was still extremely agitatd about something. And thus another question rarely asked of new parents was posed: "What are we going to do about nicknames?"

"What?" Draco replied absently. Somehow he had managed to gather the three babies into his arms, and was beginning to crash down from the surreal situation of finding he had three instead of one, but he wasn't quite there yet.

"They're not having Hugh Nincompoop," Hugo said firmly.

"Or Dancing Lily or Sweet Circe." Lily was just as adamant.

"Scorpius brought the sorry-looking daffodils," Rose cut in, sensing a legal argument about the ownership of nicknames brewing.

"They were in my pocket and they're not sorry for being there." Scorpius staunchly defended the daffodils with the same ferocity an over-protective parent might show towards their offspring. "And the new babies aren't getting Scorpiuso-Hyperiono-Malfoylyte as a nickname."

"Well, they're not getting Potty Head One."

"Don't think they're getting Potty Head Two."

The three new babies' high-pitched wails had become whimpers. Perhaps it was the comfort of their father's arms. Or perhaps it was the shock at their introduction to weird world.

"They have a point though, Draco," Astoria observed. "Two boys, one girl, three names. We thought we'd only need to choose one."

"Oh, I can take the two babies you don't want to name home to my Mum, Mrs Malfoy," Albus offered generously. "They're probably the ones she threw back to the Wise Witch anyway."

"The Wise Witch?!" James scoffed. "I told you, that's not how babies get here. What happens is, a wizard and witch fly on a broomstick..."

"I'll dance to stop them crying." Lily was as good as her word, elephant-step-stomping around the ward.

"I'll sing." Albus immediately burst into an ear-splitting, several-times-over rendition of Rock-a-Bye Baby, while Hugo joined him to launch several repeat performances as Baby falling noisily from the tree-top.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" James chanted, hands covering his ears.

"Calm down!" Rose roared.

"What about the nicknames?" Scorpius yelled.

"Tori, how did we get three?" Draco had to shout to make himself heard above the din, especially as the babies had decided to join in with increasingly loud whimpers.

"It's a bit complicated," Astoria shouted back. "Hermione reckons the curse must have been inflicted on my ancestor in the coldest wizarding winter on record, which meant all the sunshine I was soaking up was reversing the curse with counter-magic, and because the counter-magic was reversing the curse, the pregnancy was only ever showing one baby. She's really, really pleased for us. She said she'd always wanted things to work out well for you ever since Hogwarts."

"Who said that?" Draco yelled, unable to believe his ears.

"Hermione!"

"Granger?" He cried in astonishment.

"Yes, but they're all genuinely glad for us, Draco."

He snorted. "That's all I need. Being best buddies with GRANGER, POTTER, WEASLEY and THE WEASELETTE!" his voice rose several syllables with each name and echoed around the walls.

"For Merlin's sake, Draco! Hermione, Harry, Ginny and Ron are perfectly nice people and our friends!"

"OUR FRIENDS?!" Draco thundered – and jumped as the four Gryffindors burst in, wands at the ready.

"Thank Merlin! We thought something terrible had happened, the way you were yelling for us." Hermione pocketed her wand, as did the others.

"Good to know you think of us as your friends at last, Draco," Ginny smiled, pleased.

"Yeah. We could have some great Quidditch games or something." Ron was making a huge effort for Hermione's sake.

"We could have some great Quidditch games or something?" The Slytherin rolled his eyes at the red-headed Gryffindor. As if that was ever going to happen!

"Sure we can." As usual, sarcasm washed over the guileless Harry.

"Ooh, can we all play Quidditch? I'm brilliant at it!" Scorpius glossed over the small facts he had never played Quidditch in his life, and was too young to fly a broomstick anyway, to show off his dubious Quidditch skills, which consisted of scrambling around the room chasing an imaginary snitch.

"And congratulations on being the father of triplets, mate!" Harry beamed.

The father of triplets closed his eyes. It helped a little. Not much, but a little. He had a sudden terrible, terrible feeling those Quidditch games with Granger, Potter, the Weasel and the Weaselette were going to happen, whether he liked it or not.

"Everybody who does not belong in here, out!" Hermione ordered, deciding a Silencio spell would not suffice in the extremely noisy circumstances. "Ron, Harry, that includes you as well as Ginny and me. No, Scorpius, it does not include you; you and Rose are not glued together, nor are you the unfortunate victims of a sticking charm."

The brilliant Quidditch player – allegedly – and his best friend parted with heavy sighs and reluctance. Having tired himself out with anyway, a somewhat sleepy Scorpius climbed back on the enlarged bed, where his pater was still contemplating a Gryffindor-infested future...

...Seven people were required to form a Quidditch team. Another seven were required to play against that team. This would doubtless lead to having to be friends with their friends...and, as Scorpius made friends very easily, he would be friends with their children in no time, which meant even more play-dates. And, if the triplets made friends as easily as Scopius did, then…then...

Oh, Merlin! His eyes flew wide open and he gazed out once more at the daffodils fluttering and dancing on the distant hill, at the thin blue line of the lake that bordered St Mungo's. There would be dozens – maybe even hundreds – of little wizards and witches on any forthcoming play-dates!

"Draco. You're very quiet. Are you okay with us suddenly being such a big family?" Astoria asked anxiously, pulling an only half-awake Scorpius into her arms.

"It's not that, Tori. I was just thinking of how lonely I used to be. How I used to fly off on my broomstick for hours, feeling miserable and sorry for myself. And then you came into my life and loved me even though I didn't deserve to be loved. Now, I have four kids, entertain Scorpius's friends on a regular basis, and, well, I can't say I actually enjoy being with little witches and wizards – way too stressful, annoying and confusing! - but the odd thing is, afterwards, when we've all somehow got though the latest crisis in Weird World, and I can finally relax, I realise I did enjoy it. But I don't want the Gryffindor lot know that or I'll be hosting play-dates for hundreds and hundreds of little witches and wizards." He added, to his wife's baffled amusement. "You know, Tori, their hair looks..."

"Golden," she supplied, looking fondly down at the new arrivals, each with their light dusting of hair. "I thought so too."

"Almost the same colour as the daffodils thank Merlin we never had to..." Draco caught a sob in his throat just in time.

"No. We didn't." Astoria tucked their now fast asleep eldest child into the crook of her elbow to stroke her husband's arm. "Funny you should say that about the daffodils, though. There's a muggle poem...Never mind. I'll recite it to you one day," she grinned, when he looked blank. Much as he tried to integrate into muggledom with Astoria and Scorpius's help and encouragement, it was very slow progress. Muggle traditions were tolerable. Sometimes. Muggle movies and TV shows were fine. Occasionally. Muggle food was acceptable. Mostly. Muggle music was okay. In very small doses. Muggle literature was the last resistance.

She smiled at the tiny tots gazing up at their father with the same wonder and fascination with which he gazed down at them. "Draco. Those play-dates with hundreds and hundreds of little witches and wizards. If they happen. I think you'll be the perfect host."

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

(Daffodils: William Wordsworth)