Potter Potions

This is the last chapter, and the epilogue. I hope you've all enjoyed it, and feeback is welcomed and appreciated. Flic xx

Light sharply pierces my eyes, a moment’s discomfort and then I am wide awake. I have never been one to laze around in bed when there is work to be done, though this morning, thanks to Albus, I have none to attend and so am rather inclined to stay where I am.

One on side, snoring softly, his face obscured by sleep-dampened hair, lies Draco, his body curled up in a foetal position. He looks like a slumbering angel, or the most graceful of felines, pale and perfect in repose.

On my other side, nose wrinkling up from time to time as though tickled by an annoying hair is Potter, spread-eagled across the bed on his back, being deliberately obtuse even in his sleep. His normally dreadful hair has been made even worse by a night punctuated with frequent bouts of sex interspersed with the odd nap. His smooth, restful face is tanned and unworried by such thoughts of evil Dark Lords, something for which I feel compelled to show gratitude ; I had envisaged him having nightmares, his screams loud enough to wake the paintings in the Slytherin corridors, despite the Silencing charms in place.

I should have sent them both back to their own beds last night, it is madness to have let them sleep here with me. Draco will not be missed in the Slytherin dormitory since he now has his own room, but Potter’s absence is likely to cause alarm, should his house mates wake to discover him missing.

“Potter, wake up.”

He shivers at the tone and rolls on his side, slipping a hand across my chest. Draco also stirs and shuffles backwards until his recently deflowered arse bumps against my thigh.

“Potter!” I hiss, about to shake him awake when his hand moves further down and he smirks sleepily at my rather obvious morning erection. How it has possibly found the strength this morning, I will never know.

“Stop it. You must go back to your dormitory immediately.”

“Right now?” he asks tetchily.

Yes, dammit, right bloody now. Right this instant before the whole school is drafted to track you down and Merlin forbid discover you as naked as the day you were born, in bed with the greasy Potions Master.

“Yes, right now.”

“What about Draco? Why aren’t you kicking him out?”

Draco has the audacity to chuckle, turning over to face Potter across my chest.

“No one gives a shit about me, Potter. I’m not the one they’ll be looking for.”

“Language, Mr Malfoy. As that may be, you will also return to your room.”

“What? Why? What about my language? You weren’t complaining last night when I asked you to stick your-”

“Well, if he gets to stay I’m not going anywhere.”

They are both sitting up now, staring down at me with petulant expressions. So much for my being allowed to recover in peace. No one has actually addressed the question of what this all means, if it is likely to happen again, and I suspect the reason for that is that they know it undoubtedly will. Oh yes, I shall probably be sacked and left to the mercy of ranks of psychotic Death Eaters when Albus finds out, but until then, I will continue to let them come to me, purely and simply because I want them to, because I want them.

But six o’clock on a Monday morning is not the appropriate time for me to indulge in what I want.

“Up. Dressed. Out.” A sharp shove either side of me sends them both crashing to the floor, and my smirk is barely contained when they huff irritably in unison and set about arguing over discarded uniform. Once again I marvel at how physically different they are; Potter tanned, compact, with musculature defined, Draco tall, willowy, and fair.

When the last of clothing has been claimed and donned, they stand awkwardly in the doorway, perhaps waiting for me to call them back to bed with a fainted sigh and a change of heart. When it is not forthcoming, Potter says, “We’ll see you later.”

A threat, then.

“I am unavailable this evening.”

Draco snorts. “Yeah, make sure of it, you’ll be tied up with us.” Potter snickers and they both leave, chattering away loudly enough to wake the dead.

I refuse to acknowledge the smell of them on the pillow when I finally stop staring at the empty doorway and absolutely forbid myself to think about them returning.

***

When did I stop noticing James Potter in his son and start to admire the young man he sired? Perhaps it was during the early hours of the morning when I had my tongue firmly inserted into his arse. Perhaps it occurred when he clutched and writhed and moaned my name; not Professor, or Sir, or Snape, but Severus; he said my name as I took every one of his sexual naiveties and turned them into concrete familiarity.

It is not so hard to understand my feelings towards Draco; I have known the boy for many years and whilst I have never so much as entertained the idea of becoming sexuality involved with him, he obviously had no such qualms about marking me or Potter out as intended quarry. I have always felt protective towards him; Lucius has never appreciated the compassionate side his son has, preferring to indoctrinate him with idiotic notions of Pureblood superiority and ways in which Malfoys should conduct themselves. The slightest hint of sensitivity was beaten out of Draco at a young age. Is it any wonder he is wary of placing his trust in people?

Merlin, I am bored silly with nothing to do. I have tried to sleep on and off all day, but to no avail. My personal library is vast; indeed it takes up a large percentage of my living room but none of the academic journals or thick tomes can hold my interest today. Rather grumpily, I acknowledge the fact that I am waiting for the two brats to return.

A week off really was far too long a period of time for Albus to force me away from class. I cannot even imagine who he has found to cover my lessons and what rot they might be filling my already precariously brain-addled students with. Physically I am back in full health, a condition attested to by my ability to perform numerous sexual acts on two of my students last night. Somehow, I can intuit this is not the sort of proof the Headmaster required. There is nothing that fills me with greater dread than Albus finding out about this - whatever this is. It is not fear of being exiled, or exposed as some monster taking advantage, but the disappointment I know I would see in his ancient blue eyes. It is almost enough to stop me answering the door when eight o' clock comes around and once again, two sets of fists hammer the solid oak.

“I had expected Potter to have the memory of a goldfish, Draco, but you are sincerely a disappointment. Had I not explicitly stated it takes only one of you to-“

The look of shock and fear on their faces stops me mid sentence.

“What is it? What has happened?”

“The Dark Mark, over Hogsmeade,” Draco says, manners forgotten as he crosses the threshold to my bedroom and moves towards me. He climbs onto the bed, hands shaking as they reach for me and I pull him to my chest and stroke his hair. I can feel his heart thumping erratically as he tries to curl himself into a ball. He is nothing short of petrified.

“There’s going to be an attack on the school,” Potter says in a ridiculously calm voice, despite the small beads of sweat I notice dotted along his brows. I extend my other arm, and let him crawl up my side to rest against me.

“No, it will just be a sign,” I say, wholly unconvinced and heartily hoping it to be true, “there is bound to have been an incident somewhere in the village. They would not announce an attack on the school in such a deliberately provocative way. He would have nothing to gain by warning us of it first.”

They feel so warm, pressed to me, two wildly different mops of hair each tucked under an arm, their own fingers entwined across my stomach. Suddenly, I have a reason to care about the outcome of this war. Potter failing isn’t just about the downfall of the Wizarding World and the havoc a madman in power could reap on it; it is about Potter living, fulfilling his promise to be The Boy Who Lived. It is about Draco standing tall and proud, showing his parents just what it means to have dignity, and courage. For both of them to come out of this unscathed, with the rest of their glorious young lives ahead of them.

“I – I think I should go to Hogsmeade, sir. Finish this once and for all.” Potter says quietly, causing an icy hand to slip inside my chest and strangle my heart.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap, tightening my grip on him, “the Headmaster would never allow it, and neither will I. It is not time. You are too young, too – “

Beautiful. Wanted. Desired. Precious.

“Foolish,” I finish.

Draco raises his head up to stare at him, “I want to be with you, when it’s time. We’ll go together.”

“No, I have to do this on my own, Draco. There’s no way you’re coming with me. They’re just as determined to get you now as they are me, and I can’t be worrying about how safe you are when I fight him.”

Apparently, the oldest and wisest member of the room isn’t invited to offer and opinion. I give it anyway.

“Neither of you will be going anywhere. Potter for once is right, Draco. It is far too dangerous a risk. Every Death Eater including your own father has undoubtedly been ordered to kill you on sight. Can you even contemplate having to protect yourself against him?”

“He wouldn’t kill me!” Draco protests, but his grey eyes are laden with a sadness so deep it pains me to see it. He is not convinced by his own words. As usual, Potter assumes the role of mediator.

“Of course he wouldn’t, Draco,” he says consolingly, ignoring my snort, “but Severus is right, the rest of those bastards would.”

A heightened roar of flames from the sitting room alerts me to the fact that the Floo has been activated. Snatching my wand from the bedside table, both brats jump off the bed and draw their own.

My relieved sigh is loudly audible when I hear Albus’ enquiring voice.

“Severus? May I come through?”

Oh shit. Gesturing wildly to the bathroom, I get out of bed and pull my dressing gown around me, thankful when they tiptoe into the en-suite and close the door with a quiet snick.

“Certainly , Headmaster,” I say with ironic politeness, “though you will have to excuse my state of undress. I was, after all, recuperating at your request.”

His echoing chuckle transports itself, along with him, into the room, stepping out of the fireplace to brush agitatedly at his ash speckled robes.

“Severus, Lucius Malfoy and several other Death Eaters are suspected to be within the school grounds, and more are on their way as we speak. The Mark hangs over Hogsmeade, and I fear we do not have much time left before the school is under attack. Both Harry and Draco are in grave danger. It would be wise for us to find the boys and keep them here with you. I will alert the Order and have Minerva round up the rest of the students until we can get them to safety. Dark times, Severus, dark times indeed.”

This is not turning out to be one of the more pleasant days of my life. It is, I am convinced, the day my traitorous actions will be punished with a final, mercifully swift Killing Curse from one of my former compatriots. It is unavoidable. Potter needs protecting; who better than the man responsible for the death of his parents by proxy? My atonement is to be at his side, for better or for worse.

Let the old man orchestrate this battle, the last seventeen years have been leading him to this moment, all of his plans and efforts brought to culmination in one last act. He has effectively groomed Potter for this; not that I believe for a second the boy is ready to undertake such an enormous task, but since there is no choice, he must be the one to do it.

“Fine,” I growl, “I shall locate them and await your instruction.”

He nods solemnly and pats my shoulder before turning away to the Floo and I wonder if it is the last time I will see him again. Lost for a moment in the reality and various possible scenarios of what is to pass, I do not hear them come into the sitting room.

“This is it, then,” Potter says firmly, causing my head to jerk around at the sound of his voice.

“Were you never taught not to eavesdrop?” I snarl at him, wanting to slap the determination out of that stubborn face and hold him tightly to me at the same time.

“My father – “ Draco says quietly.

“Be quiet, both of you. Nothing is going to happen. The Headmaster will contact the Ministry and the place will be crawling with Aurors in minutes. Your father will be taken somewhere soft and padded and The Dark Lord is likely to –“

To what? Crawl back under his stone? Forget all about Potter and allow him to live his life out in relative peace and quiet?

“Sir, you know as well as I do that’s not going to happen. And even if it did, it’s only prolonging the inevitable.”

Damn him. Since when did the boy grow a bloody brain?

“As I said,” my gritted teeth force out, “we are to remain here until further instruction from the Headmaster.”

Hoping they heed the tone of my warning, I return to the bedroom and dress quickly, aware that every second passing me by could well be one of my last.

Of the two, Draco looks far worse than Potter, his skin visibly alive with tension as he moves to sit on the sofa, the paleness of his face a chalky white, uneven in the flickering light of the fire. Potter follows him. His jaw is set determinedly, eyes glancing up to meet mine as he puts an arm around Draco and pulls him closer. He gazes at me over the top of Draco’s head, chin resting on the fine blond hair as the boy in his arms slumps wearily against him. I imagine if my body were to be outwardly displaying the summation of my thoughts, I too would be slumped.

He does not ask me to join them, and even if he did I wouldn’t, for fear that the smell of them, the closeness of their skin might undo me. I hardly think being discovered in flagrante delicto by any of the various factions storming the castle would leave me in a desirable position.

When his stare grows too green, I turn away and busy myself in preparations; vials that might save lives, bezoars, anything I can fit in my pockets that might revive either of the two brats on my sofa, and when that is done and still there has been no word from Albus, I begin to curse.

“I think I should go,” Potter says, trying to withdraw his arm from an almost comatose Draco.

“No!” Draco argues, suddenly alert, pulling Potter back around himself.

“Potter! Stay where you are!” I bark, fear grabbing at my chest again. It would be just like him to go charging in unprepared and without a moment’s thought for the consequences.

“I can’t! I need to know what’s going on out there, Voldemort could be in the castle, I heard Dumbledore saying Death Eaters were here!”

“It is Professor Dumbledore,” I snap, though why it should matter now what he addresses the old coot as I have no idea.

“Harry, please,” Draco says quietly, “just wait, just a bit longer.”

His slim, childlike hand reaches up and brushes Potter’s cheek, turning his head and tilting it back until Potter groans and meets his lips, fiercely protective arms creeping around each other like ivy.

I groan too; partly from the scene before me and partly in annoyance that they would choose such an inappropriate moment to commit what could be their final act of intimacy together. Draco’s hands reach into Potter’s hair, fingers moving sporadically as if he cannot decide where to rest them.

“Enough.”

Obediently they break apart, lips swollen and cheeks flushed, looking as beautifully seductive as I have ever seen. My eyes close briefly as I pray to whatever deity might hear to ensure their safety this evening, and allow them to live what should rightfully be theirs; a happy, fulfilled life.

The Floo splutters into life and Albus’ urgent warning comes seconds too late as the door to my quarters is blasted off its hinges.

***

I cannot remember the last time I laid eyes on Lucius; I would have seen him at a DE meeting, but since we are usually required to wear the ridiculous garb of masks and suchlike, I do not recall precisely when I saw him quite so close up.

His eyes are wild, and his usually flawless hair is dirtied and streaked with what looks to be an unhealthy smattering of blood. I had assumed he would have had company, but the corridor beyond appears quite empty.

Wand drawn, he enters the room cautiously, his awareness that I too have drawn my wand stays his hand, at least for now. When he spots Draco, his entire face softens, as much as it is capable of. One cannot possess such fine cheekbones without giving in to a degree of looking slightly severe.

“Draco, come with me,” he demands, “It is not too late for you to redeem yourself. The Dark Lord is prepared to be merciful if you admit the error of your ways.”

Potter jumps up and aims his wand, “Take me instead, leave Draco out of it.”

Draco rises too, standing in front of Potter, “Neither of us are going with you, father. He is your Master, not mine.”

Lucius sneers then; a facial expression that truly reveals his madness to the degree to which it has fallen.

“Potter?” he spits, “Potter is your Master?”

“No, father, I have no desire to call myself a slave. He is my equal.”

“Son of a Mudblood? He most certainly is not your equal, Draco. And soon he will be dead. My Lord has come for him and he shall have him.”

“Over my dead body!” Draco yells, shouldering Potter backwards so hard he stumbles and falls against me.

“If that is what you wish, dear son.”

Lucius raises his wand and before I can think to defend with my own, a spectacular burst of green light explodes from Potter’s wand, and I hear the words I never imagined he could say spill from his lips, both of them spat bitterly, the last syllable barely uttered before Lucius hits the ground, the noise of his wand clattering and rolling away unfeasibly loud.

For a moment, none of us moves or speaks. We all stare at the carpet of blond hair strewn across the flagstones, Lucius’ face thankfully obscured by a section of it.

“Oh,” Draco says.

“Shit, Draco I’m so sorry, I thought he was going to hurt you and I just-“

Potter reaches out and slips his hand into Draco’s, squeezing his fingers to capture his attention.

I also step forward and place a hand on his shoulder, “He was not well, Draco. You must not blame Potter for his actions.”

“I don’t, I don’t,” he repeats softly, over and over as he shakes his head, and then there is no time to console him further, because loud shouts are echoing through the corridors and before I can make a grab for him, Potter is off, leaping over Lucius’ body and disappearing into the hallway.

Cursing loudly, I shake Draco back to awareness.

“Floo to the Headmaster’s study and wait there,” I order, pushing him towards the fireplace, his eyes still fixed on his father’s body, blocking the doorway.

“No, I’m not letting him fight on his own,” he says, struggling.

“He will not be alone, you stupid child, I will make sure no harm comes to him. I cannot protect you both if we are in battle. Go, now!”

He stumbles into the hearth after a sharp shove to his back and I throw the entire pot of powder in after him, watching as he vanishes to what I hope is safety.

My dwelling does not last long; screams and flashes of green light hurt my ears and burn my eyes, and I run out into the corridor just in time to see Potter rounding the corner, two masked Death Eaters littering the stone floor.

I have no idea where he might be going. Who can say with confidence what insane notions are rampaging through that thick head of his.

My legs protest each pounding movement, as I urge them to take me faster.

The Hall is packed with terrified students; the other Professors doing their best to calm the most hysterical ones, but they themselves look frightened and for once I can well understand it. Potter is nowhere to be seen, though it takes me a good thirty seconds to scan the hall twice for him before I realise that.

Filch’s yelling pulls me back into the entrance hall, Mrs Norris perched on his shoulder as he limps towards me.

“Outside! Death Eaters approaching!” he shouts, running past me and into the Great Hall to repeat his observation, which only increases the level of hysteria.

Of course, Potter is not going to sit in with the rest of the students and wait until they are taken out one by one. He would have gone to meet his destiny; play his part in fulfilling fate. And now I must meet mine with the same admirable determination he has shown. I allow myself a moment of regret for not having noticed his strengths sooner, for now I fear it may be too late.

***

For just the briefest instant, everything is frozen and still. The darkness makes it hard to see much at all and I have to wonder by which logical thought process he arrived at the idea that an attack so very late at night would be beneficial, but this line of thinking is irrelevant because he has, and here we are.

And then the world explodes with deafening ferocity; the sky is filled with shouts, Order members mounted on broomsticks, Aurors streaming around both sides of the castle, and in the distance, fire and Death Eaters approach.

Would I have been amongst them had I not been discovered as a spy? If I had not been blessed with Albus’ forgiveness and gone back to my place at the Dark Lord’s side, would I still even be alive today? Marching for a cause unknown to most of us, for a man with whom I had nothing in common and no real understanding except that which tempts us all, the wielding of power.

Potter’s angry shout breaks my contemplation, his voice the one I hear above all others. Albus is with him, and together they advance, flanked either side by Aurors and Order members alike, truly a sight to behold. He shows no fear, none that I can see anyway. His face is pure rage, eyes flashing as he stalks towards providence, wand drawn and held steady in his hand. A hand that less than a day ago was caressing my cock and drawing me closer to him, threading through my hair and teasing trails down my abdomen.

For once my body does not complain as I hurry to take my place at his side, determined that I shall protect him until the last breath leaves my lunges.

So many spells and curses are flying through the air, repelled and sent back, people dropping around us and in front of us as we keep a steady pace towards the Forest from where streams of black masks are leeching out.

And there, in the middle, stands my old Master, surrounded by his pitiful followers, the predatory smile he aims at my young lover enough to send my wand in his direction with a screamed Crucio that he flicks away easily, before casting one of his own. I can only see lights then; the sky above me is ablaze with them, the crackle of magic and the screams of curses and hexes, but I hear only one as my body convulses on the hard ground, one voice that screams ‘Avada Kedavra’ for the second time that evening.

The pain falls away then, melts back into the grass and I know I must get to my feet and help him but I was already weakened, and as I struggle and order my body to move, there is a lull in the noise, quiet gasps and the eerie silence returns.

It does not last long; a few seconds as the reality of what has happened sinks in; Harry Potter has killed the Dark Lord. I cannot confirm it with my own eyes, but I feel it; I feel him, his magic pulsing around me and then he bends down and slips an arm under my head, his green eyes so intense that I want to pour myself into them and beg his forgiveness for every cruel thing I have said or done.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

“Of course I’m not bloody well okay,” I grumble hoarsely. Forgiveness can wait.

He grins at me then, “I killed him,” he says wondrously, as though he cannot believe it.

“Lucky shot, was it?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, but then his mouth falters and he looks serious, “he was hurting you. I don’t know if I would have had the power to cast the spell, otherwise.”

“I’m glad my abused body could serve your purpose,” I say cantankerously but he only smiles again.

“There are far better ways for me to abuse it,” he says. Impertinent brat. If I weren’t lying here like some broken mannequin I would hex him myself.

“Might I be taken to the Infirmary now, or do you plan on having your wicked way with me here in the middle of the school field?”

He pretends to glance around as though considering, “I think we might have to wait, Dumbledore is over there finishing up a few Body Binds.”

“Draco,” I ask, “where is he?”

“He - I don’t know, he was with you, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, you fool, until you decided to go charging off. I sent him to the Headmaster’s office by Floo. Ask Albus.”

More Aurors arrive, evidently too late to do anything other than carry bodies away and take those that are still alive into custody, as well as transfer the injured to the Infirmary. I try to protest as I too am taken there, quite against my will since Potter has dashed off again, but I am in no position to argue.

As soon as we arrive, I demand Poppy give me a Revitalising Draught, hoping it will be enough to strengthen my legs and lead me to the brats. I keep telling myself that the worst is over; that Potter defeated the Dark Lord, but it sounds hollow until I can be assured they are both alive and well.

When Poppy is called away to attend yet more charred, unrecognisable patients, I down the entire vial and lose myself in the mayhem, edging towards the door until I can slip quietly out and begin my search.

Giving the password to Albus’ study at a time like this renders events occurring around me rather surreal. His fondness for confectionary is quite indicative of his advanced years and the lunacy it incorporates. I know of no other grown witch or wizard who would subject their colleagues to muttering ‘Jelly Babies’ each time they visit.

But mutter I do, urgently, willing the stones to turn faster as I make my way up the steps. The study is empty, Draco is not here, nor Albus or Potter, and spikes of terror slide into my spine like the thin blades of a hundred knives.

Where in Merlin’s name could they be? None of them were in the Infirmary five minutes ago, that much I am sure of. Cursing loudly enough to make Fawkes cry out, I turn and stalk out again. My plan is to return to the Great Hall, but my progress is hampered by students obviously mentally scarred enough to seek me out as a viable option to procuring soothing words. Deciding someone has to maintain a level head in the pandemonium, I snap at them to get out of my way.

The Hall is quieter now; small groups huddle together on the floor, a hundred or so faces looking up expectantly for signs I might be bringing them news. I wonder if they have yet been told of Potter’s triumph, but decide to leave that joyous announcement to the Headmaster.

Giving up on the pretence that I maintain even a moderate sense of decorum, I descend the front steps and begin shouting for Potter. I try exceptionally hard to make myself sound angry and not panic stricken, but I fear I may also have failed there as well as in the protection of my young lovers.

As I stride into the courtyard, my eyes are drawn to the two figures in the centre of it; Potter kneeling over Draco, who at first glance appears to be asleep. Which is ridiculous, my brain reminds me; no one could possibly have fallen asleep during the most important battle in Wizarding history, and why would the boy be here? He was specifically instructed to stay in the Headmaster’s study.

“Potter!” I shout, breaking into a run despite the bone weariness I feel, “what has happened?”

I need not have asked; Potter’s eyes are shiny and wet, his face slick with tears as he cradles Draco’s head in his arms, the hoarfrost blond hair beatific in the moonlight, the same moonlight that glimmers across the puddle of blood that has started to form, a slow trickle filling the gaps between the stones.

I tend Draco’s other side, pulling him into my arms; not out of Potters, but cradling him between us, our foreheads pressed together across his body.

“I found him like this,” Potter says brokenly, “he wasn’t supposed to be here.”

“Stupid boy, stupid boy,” I whisper, to Potter, to Draco, to both of them. I know not which to whom my words are more appropriate.

Then there is the slightest sound, a faint movement of the slender chest we are holding and my head snaps back, as does Potter’s. I hardly want to imagine how ridiculous our expressions must look.

“Draco? DRACO!” Potter shakes him, hard, and I have to slap his hands away to stop him dislodging any sensitive brain tissue the boy might still have functioning.

“For the love of Merlin, Potter! Did you not think to check his pulse before pronouncing him shuffled off the mortal coil?”

Laying Draco back down carefully, I set about pulling every single vial from my pockets, meticulously checking labels in the silvery light and pouring as many as I can down Draco’s throat. He splutters and chokes; I admit they are not the most delightfully tasting concoctions, but who is he to complain when they are saving his life?

“Stop struggling and swallow, you idiot boy.”

Potter helps me to sit him up and I firmly rub his back, pleased when he begins to work his throat and his hands flutter tentatively, as though he cannot decide which one of us to attach himself to. Eventually he throws an arm around each of us, and we exchange relieved glances.

“Potter here had all but signed your death certificate,” I tell him, pleased to see a faint smirk play across his pale lips.

“I did not!” Potter retorts sharply, looking outraged.

I fear my retaliatory smile might have revealed too much of my relief at their evident continuation of life, for Potter returns it, wider and far more handsomely than I had or ever will, manage.

“Well that’s gratitude for you,” Draco croaks, massaging his throat, “and after I watched his back too.”

“You were expected to stay put,” I growl, remembering I am supposed to be angry.

He manages a weak snort, “Why should Potter get all the glory? Besides, you didn’t see the hungry look Greyback had on his ugly face. If anyone gets to eat Potter, it should be me.”

Having no satisfactory rejoinder to his juvenile leering, we stagger his weight between us and take him up to the Infirmary.

***

Epilogue

It has been nearly three months to the day since Harry Potter was once again hailed a hero in the Wizarding World and life has been exceptionally erratic since then.

The first thing I hastened to do upon locating the wayward Headmaster was to hand him my resignation, ignoring every single one of his illogical reasons as to why I should stay on as Potions Master. When he eventually desisted and offered up the sherbet lemons, I made sure to express my contentedness that he too had survived. Something about his chuckle told me leaving Hogwarts wasn’t going to be the last I saw of him.

Despite Potter’s grave error in originally pronouncing Draco’s death, the boy made an astonishing recovery, partly in fact due to the potions he ingested, though of course, I did not wish to shatter Poppy’s illusion that it was all her own fair hand that nursed him back to peak health in the minimum amount of time; gross displays of public admiration are best suited to the Potter’s of the world.

Neither brat took the news of my leaving in anything that could have remotely resembled a positive manner. Potter even went as far as to accuse me of abandoning him in the middle of his N.E.W.Ts, which, as I laughingly pointed out, he had no hope of passing anyway. Draco managed to raise a smile at that, but it took some degree of personal attention before Potter did. That, and a promise it would not be the last time he received such intimate reassurances from me.

For once, I was able to keep my word. They stayed on for the final two months of school, Draco never moving back to the Slytherin dormitories, opting instead to share his private quarters with Potter, a move I suspect the Headmaster neither encouraged nor deterred. Draco talks very little about his father, except to strenuously deny he blames Potter for his death; a claim I know to be wholeheartedly true. I am also aware he has paid a visit his mother, something he chose to do alone and of which he does not to discuss details.

I did not see them much during those two months; they were busy with their studies and I was content in the knowledge that they had each other, an arrangement I fully expected to become exclusive as time went on. I immersed myself in work, devoting my time to the setting up of an Apothecary in Diagon Alley, and when my eye happened to catch the calendar one morning, I deliberately ignored the fact that it was the final day of term. I had no expectations of them; after all, they were free to live their lives in whatever manner they wished. For that alone, I was content enough.

So you may be as surprised to learn as I am recounting it to you, that they once again grace each side of my bed; Draco curled into a ball, hand rested lightly on my stomach, Potter as usual imitating a starfish so that Draco and I must make do with a fraction of our reasonably allotted bed space. He has even overrun the bedside table with countless notepads and pencils, mostly depicting either mine or Draco’s feet, strange boy that he is. I say mostly because he has also developed rather a talent for accurately sketching other body parts; ones I find far more appealing then toes.

Why are they here? I cannot tell you, only that they are. That the very same night the Hogwarts Express rolled into Kings Cross, less than half an hour later, they were at the door to my shop. Two sets of knuckles rapping loudly enough to shatter my concentration and ruin an otherwise perfectly good batch of Veritaserum.

One smooth, blond head and one messy, dark one bursting through the door and throwing down their bags as though staking some kind of claim. Potter telling me triumphantly that he had passed his bloody Potions N.E.W.T even whilst they dragged me forcefully towards the stairs to the flat, before I could utter so much as a locking charm to the shop door.

Irritatingly, they haven’t left here since.

***