Author's Note: Don't know where this came from at all. Not explaining anything, not expanding this at all. One Shot all the way. Reviews appreciated.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warning(s): Set several years in the future; supposed to be compliant to all except The-Epilogue-that-Shall-not-be-Mentioned. Thus, OOCness. Look at this like a husband and his family that are finally finding happiness after so many years of being deprived of it, and maybe you'll see it like me and not be bothered by what you'd think of as OOC.

Her hands make sense.

They aren't small and delicate, like most of the girls' hands he's studied (and he's always paid attention to them, for whatever reason). They are like a lioness's paws, he often thinks. Wide enough to make her a good Chaser, with long fingers that were roughened by her Quidditch playing, her hands are covered in freckles like the rest of her body. The finest strawberry blonde hairs patches just above her knuckles and up the outside of the back of her hand.

If he reaches out and turns her palm upwards, he'll be able to see a small, sideways oval exactly an inch below her right pinky finger that he always manages to mistake for some food substance or another- usually chocolate. A birthmark, not a freckle. This one has been there from the beginning of her life, and will stay with her until even it rots in her grave.

It is silly how much he knew about her hands, but he loves them, so he supposes it's natural to notice the finer details.

He loves the way they work- catching Quaffles and passing them and making goals. He loves the way they feel- pushing through his fine hair and trailing down his bare back and massaging out the kinks in his sore muscles. He loves the way they move- helping her tell stories and reaching the highest of shelves just barely and drawing back her terrifically red hair time and time again. He loves her hands, so he is always watching them. He is always noticing them.

"G'morn'n," she breathes, and her hand tenses, becoming spider-like on his chest. He doesn't tear his gaze away from it as the corners of his mouth twitch into the barest whisper of a smile. She doesn't know how much he loves her hands.

"Sleep well?" he asks, his own hand falling around her to brush her shoulder. She moves closer to him to press against his side. . She's warm and so close that he doesn't have to look at her when she nods- he feels it. He's on his back, she's curled on her side beside him. She tickles his abdomen by drumming her fingers against it. "Work?" he inquires, and she shakes her head, which pleases him immensely. They'll have the whole day together.

"Though I promised Luna I'd help her pick out her dress today," she sighs, and his eyes meet hers, obviously displeased with her plans. She looks at him and scrunches her nose. "I don't want to," she confesses, but he knows she will because she's just that way- hopelessly unmotivated until the fun begins. He knows, even though she may not want to leave the warmth of the bed, yet, once she gets to trying on clothes and spending galleons, her entire mood will change. That doesn't stop him from trying to persuade her away from it.

"Draco," she finally gets around to admonishing. "I'm not going to step out on the bride. I'm finally the Maid of Honor in a wedding, and here you are being a great prat about it." She teases him with her insults, and he knows because she's smiling while he pouts in the most Malfoy-acceptable way (which involves only the slightest jutting out of his lower lip and looking at her through lowered eyelashes). "Don't pout," she tells him knowingly, "I'll be back before dinner- promise."

He suppresses a grin, wanting still to draw her into a day together in bed, but she's not to be swayed. She tells him so, and he eventually relents. "You'll owe me, Gin," he tells her. She's positively beaming then, because she loves it when he calls her that. It makes them feel like family. Reminds her that they've really been married for eight years, going on nine in the upcoming fall. She brushes the hair back from his forehead and his smile grows in response.

He really does love her hands.

She kisses him, wrapping her arms around his neck and rolling him on top of her in a surprising show of strength for someone her size. Of course, it was probably a task made easier by his eagerness to feel her- have her again and again and again like they swore to that day eight and a half years ago. To "love and protect and all that rubbish" as she had actually vowed. (His vows had been rather eloquent ways of dancing about a simple "I love you", while hers had been… hers. In the most prominent display of the extent of his love, which he hadn't recognized until that very moment, before that altar and that entire dazed audience, he found her manner not appalling, but terribly charming- endlessly cute, even.)

She's still the same, he knows. She feels the same way with him, like she's perfectly content just existing with him, being in and sharing the same space; as if the world could be just the two of them and the simplicity alone would allow her to love him forever. He's far removed from the boy who tried to run from her constant advances- he's become the man that holds fast to those advances and cherishes her in ways that no other boy ever did. Ever could.

They came, of course. She was the normal teenage girl, dabbling in dating here and there. By the time the war was done with and she found him sobbing amongst the debris of the final battle, she'd become something of a woman, and there was no turning back. There was nothing on earth that would have stopped him from relying on her, and she seemed intent on letting him rely. She was always intent on something.

"Oh."

He is startled from his reminiscing by her voice, and he pulls away from the most sensitive part of her neck to meet her dark, stirring eyes. Her gaze is fixed beyond him, towards the door, and he cannot suppress his grin as he turns to see what's there.

"Giana," he coos, extracting himself from his wife and using his long legs to make it to his two-year-old daughter in a matter of moments. "Good morning."

"Good morning, sweetheart," Ginny calls from the bed, and their daughter looks at her father with the largest smile he's ever seen, making him think of the past, of her mother, of his wife. The little girl takes his long, aristocratic hand in her own and points to her mother on the other side of the room.

"Mummy," she states, and he begins to lead her that way, though she walks confidently at his side. She climbs onto the bed with some difficulty, eventually managing to settle herself against her mother comfortably. Ginny Malfoy, in response, uses her long, callused fingers to feather her daughter's strawberry blonde hair before extending her hand to her husband, who's still standing to the side of their bed.

He takes it of course, because he loves her hands.

He settles in beside his daughter, reaching one hand around both her and his wife while the other rests upon the slightest swelling in the latter's stomach. He loves this, too. The way he can hold them all together like this, like a Quaffle in his hands- only so much more precious. It's like he's holding the entire universe between his two hands, and the matching rings on his and Ginny's rings are the moon and the sun and all the love between them is the stars.

In a way, it sounds so poetic.

But, in reality, it's just another morning in the Malfoy home.

Author's Note: Fin. Check out the link in my profile, PLEASE. PLEASE. I will love you forever, and it's also a great opportunity for new HP writers to try out their wings and get to see what OTHER HP writers think about lots of stuff. X Please review. Reviews make me really, really happy. :D