Broken Toy

Author's Notes:
Yai. The epilogue.
So now it’s done. Finished. Over.
I still can’t believe that I finally hit the “Complete” button… *sniff*

THANK YOU ALL!
Thank you for accompanying BT for such a long time. For me, it’s still unbelievable that you didn’t lose interest. And it’s not just a phrase: Without your comments, I’d definitely stopped along the way. Plus *coughs*, I have to admit that one or the other comment brought tears of emotion to my eyes. Or simply made me blush. It’s a shame that it’s not possible to reply to comments here - I’d had loved to reply to you, I really would have!
Your comments meant a lot to me, especially in times when nothing seemed to work out, my self-confidence was shattered, and RL presented me with some nasty blows.

Honestly, I’ll miss you! *hugs*

I hope you’ll like the epilogue. Enjoy! *g*


Epilogue

It felt so good.

Harry grinned lazily.

He couldn’t deny it. The touch of a female hand was different.

He stretched his shoulders contentedly, relishing the strokes of her hands massaging his muscles. He felt safe and comfortable. Not for anything in the world would he stir now, simply out of fear the soft hands on his shoulders would stop their treatment. It just felt so good.

His grin turned into a happy smile. There was no doubt about it. This girl was the one and only girl he had ever loved truly and unconditionally.

“Happy?” Her soft voice whispered near his ear.

“When you are around, all of the time,” he laughed.

“Liar!” Her light kiss on his cheek was full of deep affection.

The hands left his shoulders. Not able to hide his disappointment, he got out of his chair.

“You’re off?”

She nodded. “I’ve got to.”

“Thank you.” He meant what he said.

“Anytime.”

They hugged each other lovingly before she left his office.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry sighed and flopped on his chair. The tenseness in his back and neck had returned, and soon it would lead to the bothersome headache which plagued him lately. His muscles had started to throb again as soon as her hands had stopped the massage. He tried to fool himself that his physical reactions were due to the amount of work he had to manage right now, but he was too honest to kid himself. There was just one reason, and he knew it.

He sighed once more. Time to get home. Today was his birthday, after all.

Cautiously he put the valuable, ancient book back into its wrappings. Dark Deeds Debauch to Doom, by Penelope Peabody, first edition from 1621. There had been a time when he would have laughed about a book as a birthday present, especially if given by Hermione, and had laid it aside, bored. But not today. Today he appreciated the knowledge he could gain from books, particularly if the book was selected by Hermione.

He smiled. Yes. Hermione really was the one and only girl he had ever really loved. They genuinely understood and respected each other; it had been like that from the start. He didn’t know what he would have done without her, and not just at Hogwarts, when he had needed her precise intellect and fast-witted cleverness. During the last year Hermione had turned out to be an empathetic and competent listener; there weren’t many words necessary for him to explain his troubles. Especially on the occasions when he felt as low and down as he did today.

Carefully Harry deposited the present into his bag. It was time to get home.

He stood, slung his bag over his shoulder and surveyed the room. Had he forgotten anything?

The windows were shut, the papers were piled up neatly in stacks, the incoming mail had been answered and filed. His desk seemed to be in order. Not for the first time today his eyes fell upon the framed photograph on his desk, and this time he didn’t ignore it.

Carelessly casting his bag down on the floor, he sat on his chair again, taking the photograph into both of his hands.

Two men were kissing each other fiercely, unaware they were being photographed. Had it only been about a year ago? With one of his thumbs he stroked the frame fondly; his impulsive smile was filled with longing. He knew exactly how excited he had been, what he had felt that day in the corridor, after the trial was over…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His heart is beating heavily against his chest; he feels sick with tension. He isn’t exactly running, but he is walking fast. He has to.

What did he say earlier? It’s now or never?

Exactly. He doesn’t like it, he detests it, but he has to do it. He walks faster.

It is hard to look straight ahead, not turn his head back. He shuts the door to the corridor behind him. On he goes.

Will Draco follow him?

In his excitement, he almost stumbles over his own feet; hastily he looks right and left, but none of the witches and wizards in the Atrium notice. Good. On he goes.

It would have been so easy. The only thing he had to do was take Draco into his arms, and then they would have Apparated home together. But Harry doesn’t want that.

Harry wants Draco to come along of his own free will. Harry wants Draco to come along with him of his own free will.

He opens the gate of the main entrance of the Ministry, not looking back, and hastens down the steps leading down to the road.

Will Draco follow him?

Personally, Harry doesn’t need proof. He is sure about Draco’s love. He sees it in his eyes. He feels it. He just knows it. Just as he knows that Draco dreads acknowledging it.

Harry hates himself for pushing Draco, but now’s the time for Draco to make a decision. As a free wizard, he can do whatever he chooses.

Staring ahead, Harry hastens forwards, heading towards the secret alley where it is safe for wizards to Disapparate. Heading towards the place Harry had frequently, but casually, mentioned to Draco early this morning.

His steps slow down. Why does he stride as fast as he does?

It’s no use anyhow. Draco won’t follow Harry to accompany him home. Draco needs time. He needs time to adjust to his new situation. He needs time to comprehend that he is free now, master of his own choices. He needs time to realize that he can relax now, and can start to reappraise his past. He needs time to become a Malfoy again, and find his place in the wizarding world. Plus he needs time to figure out what the prospect of claiming the Malfoy estate will mean to him.

Harry reaches the corner of the dark alley. He finds a thousand reasons not to Disapparate at once. Instead, he finds it necessary to inhale deeply for some time, bracing the dark wall of the building with his upper arms, burying his head between the gap.

He wishes for Draco to follow him so badly. He wishes for Draco to need him and be a part of his future life so badly that it hurts.

He almost screams with joy when he is roughly turned around and slammed against the wall. He feels jubilant to see Draco’s face in front of him, even when it is contorted with fury.

“WHAT? FEEL FREE TO VISIT? KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME? DAMN YOU, PERFECT POTTER!”

Harry can’t help smiling happily, although Draco is bellowing at the top of his lungs. It hurts when Draco grabs for Harry’s collar, cuts off his air, and slams his back with brute force against the wall again.

“How dare you leave me like this?”

Draco’s face is almost touching Harry’s; his grey eyes full of rage. Harry has to gulp hard; he knows he has pushed Draco too far too early. He wants to apologize, he opens his mouth to speak, but is silenced by a violent, possessive kiss.

“How dare you?”

Again Harry is pushed back against the hard wall of the building. Harry can feel Draco’s excited breath on his face.

Harry needs to explain his reasons, wants to make Draco see.

“I--“

“SHUT UP!” Draco roars; his voice cracks.

Harry’s hand, reaching up for Draco’s face, intending to stroke it, pleading for his sympathy, is shoved up the wall, and held there by an iron grip on his wrist.

Draco’s whole body crashes against Harry’s, pressing him so heavily against the solid surface that he can’t breathe any more. Draco’s teeth sink into the crook of Harry’s neck; he bites until it hurts. It gets wet there, and for a frightful moment Harry is convinced Draco’s sharp teeth have drawn blood, that Draco is tearing his jugular vein out. He is reassured by slurping noises, it has to be saliva, just saliva, but then he understands that the saliva is mingled with furious tears.

“How could you?” Draco’s voice is muffled, but the despair in it can’t be missed.

Love for Draco makes Harry’s heart feel like swelling double size; it almost bursts with the urge to comfort him, make him happy and content.

‘How could I?’ Harry’s mind cries out. ‘I had to leave you, don’t you see? I needed you to follow me, to come after me of your own free will, so we can start anew. I’ll never leave you again, I swear; I’ll stay with you no matter what, as long as you will have me.’

But words are insignificant now, Harry knows that. Draco won’t understand this moment. Harry is sure that it will probably take years for Draco to believe in words of love. Actions are in order; he has to show him.

With his jaw he nudges Draco, tries to encourage him lift to his head. It hurts when their jaws bang together accidentally, due to too much enthusiasm. It doesn’t matter, nothing really matters, as long as their mouths, their hungry lips, their greedy tongues meet.

Reality loses its meaning; the world ceases to exist. There is no Ministry, no wizarding world, there are no Muggles. There is no street, no traffic, no passers-by. Nobody is there except Draco and Harry in a dark, lonesome corner, and they kiss each other as if it’s the last chance they will ever have.

Hastily, their hands start to explore each other’s body; their faces first, then their necks, their shoulders, arms, chests. Fingers are groping; the clothes prevent them from feeling what they need to feel. Cloaks drop off their shoulders to the dirty ground; it’s better now, much better, but not enough.

Their kisses become deeper, more forceful. Their tongues are glued together; teeth are moving against teeth, saliva dribbles, lips split open.

Their jackets follow the cloaks to the ground, but still it’s not enough. Simultaneously, they rip their shirts out, and hands are running fast over sweaty skin, wanting to touch each and every muscle there is.

Their hips meet, their pelvises rotate, and both groan when they feel the hard member of the other through the fabric of their trousers.

Harry squeezes his hands between their hips, grabs for the bulge in Draco’s pants, curses the fabric, and rubs the stiff flesh underneath forcefully. He groans when he feels it twitching under his touch. He groans loader when Draco yanks at Harry’s zipper, tears it down, and fumbles his way through the clothes. Harry whimpers when Draco’s hand clutches his penis; his hips shoot forwards when Draco starts to squeeze and stroke.

He drives him crazy; Draco just drives Harry crazy. The strokes of Draco’s hand speed up, the clutch of his fingers tighten, squashing his swollen penis, and his lips suck Harry’s tongue almost completely into his mouth.

Harry loves him so much; he loves him so much that it hurts.

He has to tell him, oh Merlin, he has to tell him, but, damn, he has forgotten, Draco won’t understand.

He has to show him. Sex is solid ground; sex is what Draco understands.

Frantically, he pushes Draco back, ignores the shocked pain in his eyes, and yanks his own pants down.

“Take me,” he croaks out, kicking the pants off his ankles.

Draco stares back at him, mouth gaping open, not able to comprehend.

“Take me,” Harry repeats. He turns his back on him, leans his arms on the wall for support, and stands with his legs spread wide apart, offering his naked behind to Draco.

Harry hears Draco gasp. “But you--”

Harry loves Draco all the more for his kind consideration, but now really isn’t the occasion for fine sentiments.

“Spittle,” Harry groans and turns around again.

Draco is still standing rooted to the spot. His beautiful grey eyes are opened wide in disbelief; his arms are hanging down his side lifelessly. He definitely needs a helping hand.

Harry jerks Draco’s pants down, gulps as the magnificent member springs free, spits into his hands and rubs the fluid onto the hot flesh. Draco feels so good in his hands, it’s hard to let go of his erection. Harry’s mouth waters, and he suppresses the want to get to his knees and suck Draco senseless. Swiftly, Harry turns to brace the wall once more, arms held up, legs spread wide apart.

“C’mon.” His voice is unsteady, but he adds lowly, “I want you.”

Harry can hear a rustle of clothes, followed by a deep intake of breath.

“Harry, you are-- I-- You are incredible.”

Harry closes his eyes and smiles happily. Draco has understood.

A heartbeat later, Harry feels tender hands pulling his cheeks apart, preparing him. Draco buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck and starts to nibble at the soft skin, without doubt trying to distract from his slippery member positioning itself against Harry’s entrance. But Harry is too agitated to think about probable pain, he is too agitated to think about anything. He wants to be taken.

Clenching his fists, he holds his breath, relaxes as much as possible, and pushes his arse back as far as he can. The head of Draco’s penis slides past the tight ring at once.

Draco’s response sounds like a sob. He grabs for Harry’s wrists, encloses them tightly, and covers Harry’s backside completely with his body. Then he pushes his hips forwards, slowly, bit by bit, and pulls out again. Only to push in again, a bit deeper each time.

The pain is exquisite. It’s as intense as the night before; it feels as if Harry is being ripped apart. But today he knows that the feeling of being stabbed to death by a too huge, foreign object will cease. Nevertheless he can’t help crying out. But he wants to be slammed, he wants to be taken, he wants to be Draco’s.

Draco is panting; his excited breath tickles Harry’s ear. “Harry?” His hoarse enquiry sounds anxious.

“Draco!” Harry yells in confirmation and pushes back.

It is like the night before, but better. Draco resumes impaling his hard length deeper and deeper, stimulating that special, sensitive spot deep inside of Harry again and again. The slamming gets faster and faster, and Harry meets his rhythm eagerly.

Soon Harry is sweating heavily, his breathing speeds up; his hunger for fulfilment reaches a point when it starts to ache. His anus contracts with desire, and he is astounded that Draco reacts with an intelligible outcry. With a forceful thrust, Draco sheathes himself entirely, squashing his balls between the soft flesh of Harry’s cheeks. Harry arches his back ardently; there doesn’t seem to be a limit to his still increasing lust. Again he clenches his buttocks, and again Draco slams into him with even more savagery.

The increasing staccato of flesh slapping against flesh pushes Harry almost over the edge; it won’t be long now, his climax is approaching. Goosebumps explode on the insides of his thighs, his balls contract, his body tenses.

Draco utters a sound unlike anything else Harry has ever heard; he must be coming, too.

Sharp teeth sinking deep into the flesh of his neck make Harry shout, but it’s Draco’s hand reaching out for his penis, jerking it wildly, that does it.

“Draco!”

Semen gushes out of Harry’s glans; uncontrollably it splashes everywhere, against the wall, upon his feet, high up into the air. The incredible intensity of his orgasm hits him with full force; involuntarily he starts to shake all over. His knees are wobbly, his legs feel weak; he isn’t sure if he can stand on his feet any longer.

“Harry!”

The fist around his penis tightens, pinching off the gush. Draco shudders violently, and Harry knows his insides are flooded with Draco’s sperm. Abruptly, Draco leans heavily on Harry, and the sudden, additional weight makes Harry stagger.

He can’t stand any longer, he simply can’t. He gives in to weakness and sinks down to the ground. But he has to set eyes on Draco; he needs to see his beloved face. With effort, he shifts and takes a seat in the dirt, leaning his back against the wall. With a smile he notices that Draco is resting right beside him, massaging his knees, looking equally worn out. Only then does Harry become conscious of the fact that Draco must have managed a staggering acrobatic performance. As the taller of the two, he had to shag Harry with his knees slightly bent all of the time.

Grinning, Harry leans feebly over to kiss Draco, but a sudden, dazzling light blinds him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lost in memory, Harry smirked maliciously, his thumbs still stroking the framed photograph.

Cold fury helped him immediately forget about his weakened state. As soon as he had realized that one of those slimy, nosy reporters of the Daily Prophet had sneaked up on them and had taken pictures of their intimate coupling, he had been on his feet. One punch into the face of the moron had done the trick. The reporter had been knocked out for good.

Of course Harry had confiscated the film at once. The Memory Charm had made sure that the guy wouldn’t remember a single second of what he had seen. Draco and Harry had Disapparated home directly afterwards.

Home. That reminded him that he had to go home. Without doubt, Draco was waiting for him. After all, it was Harry’s birthday today, and Harry was sure that Draco had prepared something. He had acted pretty mysterious the past few days, giggling all of the time.

Harry put the photograph back on his desk and sighed.

He didn’t care for presents. The thing he cared most about he was sure he would never get.

Shoulders hanging down, he left the office.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

About to open the door of their cottage, his mood had brightened up again. Expectantly, he sniffed the air. What had Draco prepared? Treacle tart (Harry’s favourite)? Chocolate cake (Draco’s favourite)?

During the last year, Draco had become an excellent cook. It was fun returning home from work with a delicious meal waiting for Harry. Draco liked to cook; at least he insisted, saying it was a welcomed distraction from his studies.

Harry was proud of Draco. To his great surprise, Draco had declined his rightful claim of the Malfoy estate. After he had visited the Manor shortly after the trial, all by himself, he had returned to Harry with a peculiar request. As he had left Hogwarts without a graduation, he intended to catch up on that. Would Harry support him financially until he had finished his final exams and found a job? Deeply impressed, but not showing it, for Draco would have hated that, Harry had readily agreed.

It was fun to help Draco with his studies. Not that there was much to help; Draco was a more serious student than Harry had ever been, at least regarding theoretical issues. However, Harry shared his practical experience with Draco, and Draco’s ability to cast spells and charms improved daily.

Harry was curious what kind of job Draco intended to take later on. His skills were varied; he could fill any job he fancied.

Smiling fondly, he peeked into the kitchen. “Draco?”

The kitchen was deserted. Plus, to Harry’s astonishment, there wasn’t any sign of food having been prepared.

Shrugging his shoulders, he went on towards the living room. “Draco?”

The living room was deserted, too. That was odd. Where was Draco?

Harry tossed his bag carelessly on the chair beside the door, then stood still, indecisive.

Abruptly, the euphoric feeling of joy and anticipation was gone. Harry flopped on the sofa, propped his elbows on his knees, and started to knead his brow with his fingertips. Damn headache.

Where was Draco?

Actually, Harry didn’t care much about his birthday. He never had. But to be honest, he had cared about this birthday. He had been crazy enough to hope against hope that maybe today, Draco would express something which would resemble affection.

He couldn’t complain about lack of emotion when they had sex. That never had been an issue. Each time their love-making was as intense as if it was the first time all over again: powerful, passionate, forceful, but at the same time tender and caring.

Harry missed the “little” things.

He hated himself for being that weak, but he’d give anything in the world for a casual, silly term of endearment. He barked a laugh. Last year, he had been crazy enough to be convinced that sooner or later, Draco would be able to open up and express a feeling. Harry was sure he just had to wait. Well, he had been wrong.

Draco hadn’t changed.

It was about time that Harry accepted that Draco would never change; he had to respect Draco as he was.

It was just-- Harry wished, he yearned to hear it just once, just one single time.

Of course Harry knew that Draco loved him. There was no doubt about that. He knew it today as he had known it the previous year. If Draco would say it just once. It would make up for the lack of endearments Harry’s stupid soul was longing for. As Draco preferred to remark often, Harry was a hopeless, romantic fool.

But Draco hadn’t the slightest clue how foolish Harry really was.

The frequent changes of mood, his headaches, and the tenseness of his back didn’t occur by chance. Harry was no dimwit. He knew it was Harry the little kid calling out, asking to be hugged, begging to be cared for, pleading to be loved.

Rational, adult Harry had argued the problem over and over in his mind. Adult Harry knew Draco; he knew all about his character, all about his upbringing, all about his abusive past, all about his broken soul. Rational Harry knew Draco needed years to adjust, if ever, and he was prepared to wait.

After all, he should be happy, for Merlin’s sake!

Draco was his partner. They shared their lives, they shared similar opinions, they laughed at the same jokes and got mad at the same topics. There was no restraint, no limit; just sincerity and honesty when they discussed serious matters.

Maybe, one fine day, Draco would…

‘Give him time,’ Hermione kept on telling him again and again. ‘After all he’s gone through, he needs time. He’s not like you. Nobody’s like you. You’re ability to love is unique. So, be patient, and give him time.’

Harry looked up and smiled, but it was a sad smile. You’re ability to love is unique? Yeah. He loved too much. But be as it may, he would wait.

Trying to get his wits together, he let his eyes wander about the living room. His smile changed, and his eyes started to sparkle with restored confidence. The living room definitely looked different compared to last year, and the change couldn’t be put down to the necessary renovation after the fight with the Weasley siblings. It had been a cosy place before, but now the room looked inhabited. For example, dozens of framed photographs now decorated the previously blank walls. True, regarded by strangers, the subjects were boring because similar; they either displayed Draco and Harry, or Harry and Draco. Several books were piled up in one corner; Draco needed them daily, so it didn’t make sense to sort them neatly into the book shelves. Harry had left a half-eaten apple on the armrest of the chair near the window; now why on earth had he left it there? A crumpled up shirt was still stuffed into the corner of the sofa, partially hidden by a cushion; it had been hot the day before yesterday when Draco had torn it off his chest. The vase, sitting on its usual place on the living room table, held a bunch of flowers of unusual size and colour; a result of their bizarre transfiguration exercises last evening.

Harry called himself a fool once more. The room mirrored their present life. A bit chaotic, but cosy and comfortable, uniting different, well, stuff.

Now Harry grinned broadly. Even parts of their past were represented. Above the fireplace, Draco’s plait hung down like a trophy; they had agreed on its display. Underneath, on the fireplace sill, the item that held Draco’s once one and only worldly possessions was set up: Draco’s little, wooden trunk.

‘Wrong,’ Harry corrected himself. It was Harry’s trunk now; he had swapped the contract for it.

And never opened it.

Realization came out of the blue. How could it be that he never had peeked into the box? He could remember vividly that Draco had clung to the trunk as if his life depended on it when Harry had brought him here.

“It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got,” Draco had said pointedly when he had offered the trunk as the prize for the contract.

Spontaneously, Harry got up and went over to the fireplace. Thoughtfully, he let his open palm run over the rough, wooden surface of the little trunk. In the past, very often, too often, his curiosity had led to embarrassing situations. But he had never cared much about consequences; he had always followed his intuition.

Why hadn’t he ever opened the little trunk?

Harry’s heartbeat sped up. He knew the answer before he voiced it in his mind. He hadn’t opened the trunk because he was sure that it hid something personal. Something important enough to Draco that he had cared to carry it along when he came here.

‘And clutched to it as if his life depended on it,’ a small voice repeated inside Harry’s head.

To hell with modesty!

Swiftly, Harry lifted the lid and stared at what seemed to be a heap of junk. Why on earth did Draco care to keep crumpled sheets and torn, old gloves?

He looked closer.

He started to tremble when he recognized the glove.

It was a Quidditch glove, and it bore the crest of Gryffindor. Ages ago, it had been his glove, discarded because torn; he identified it by the initials he once had proudly inked into the leather.

Next Harry held Draco’s broken wand in his hands, and after that, he produced an old quill which he was sure he had abandoned in his sixth year. A small album followed, filled with pictures of Draco’s family.

Sheets of paper lay on the bottom of the trunk. They turned out to be several newspaper clippings, informing about the “Boy who lied”, the “Saviour of the wizarding world”, and “Former Hogwarts teacher arrested” as well as “Supposed Death Eaters arrested in the middle of London”.

Spontaneously, water rushed into his eyes. To distract himself, Harry hastily reached out for one of the crumpled up papers and unwrinkled it. Unbelieving, he stared at his own handwriting: “Good morning, my darling! Did you know you look like an angel when you sleep?” In a frenzy, he looked through the other wrinkled sheets, though it wasn’t necessary. He knew they were the drafts he had written to Draco and discarded one year ago.

With trembling hands, Harry put the different items carefully back into the trunk and shut the lid as quietly as he could.

Curiosity killed the cat...

His hands clenched into fists to suppress the tremble. He wouldn’t shout, oh no, he wouldn’t.

Never before had he been as ashamed as he was now. He felt as if he had pried nosily into Draco’s mind, rummaged through his well-kept memories and secrets, and besmirched his fragile soul.

Why, on earth, had Harry opened that damn trunk? WHY? He was no better than any of those damn reporters at the Daily Prophet. He deserved a hard slap across his face. He deserved a good aimed punch into his middle. He deserved a kick in his ass, and he deserved… no, he didn’t deserve…

He didn’t deserve to be looked at by Draco ever again.

His fingernails hurt his palms the tighter he clenched his fists, but he didn’t notice. He had longed so badly for a sign of Draco’s affection, but, honestly, he hadn’t wanted to achieve it that way.

Why on earth had he opened that damn trunk?

On impulse, he wanted to rush out, out of the house, away from Draco, just run away, as far as he could. Out of the house and run, run, run, no matter where; through the fields, up the hills and down the country roads; away, just far away, as far as he could, just run, run, run… He turned on his heels, headed to the French windows and…

…abruptly paused in his steps.

Now why had he opened the trunk in the first place?

Because it belonged to him. Draco had sold it to him. Harry hadn’t peeked into something he wasn’t supposed to see. Draco had offered him the box.

He had been meant to see the contents all along.

Again Harry called himself a fool, but this time for a different reason.

How thick are they? How silly, childish, immature??

Harry loves Draco, Draco loves Harry, but nobody dares to talk about it?

How thick are they???

Where was Draco?

He had to be somewhere around; Harry felt it.

Upstairs. He had to be upstairs.

Now Harry indeed stormed out of the living room, but into the opposite direction. He sprinted up the stairs, taking two steps at once.

“Draco?”

Too low, he was calling too low, maybe Draco hadn’t heard him.

“DRACO???” He bellowed.

Not caring about the door handle, he kicked the bedroom door open with his foot. Draco?

Draco???

At first he couldn’t make out anything in the bedroom; the curtains were drawn, shutting out the daylight. Slowly, far too slowly, his eyes adjusted to the half-dark.

The bedroom was dimly lit by several flickering candles. Everywhere Harry looked he could see the delicate shapes of marguerites, there were thousands of them, either arranged in vases and bottles, buckets and bins, or hanging down from the ceiling, tied to the walls, or lying in heaps on the floor.

In the midst of the flowers, Draco was kneeling, naked except for a red ribbon arranged loosely around his neck, holding up a single marguerite in his outstretched hand.

“They aren’t transfigured socks,” Draco grinned nervously. “This is the real thing.”

Then Draco beamed up at him. “Happy birthday, Harry.”