𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐃 | ᴀ ᴅʀᴀᴍɪᴏɴᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟᴇ

EPILOGUE

So what have we learned from this story?

First and foremost, bachelor parties?

Terrible idea.

Once you're in a committed relationship, going to bars or a strip club without your significant other is just asking for trouble. Whoever started the bachelor-party tradition should be buried alive in a mass grave with the karaoke guy and . . . well . . . I was going to say Ron Weasley.

But I guess we can let him live. I'm over it—he's harmless. He's also dim-witted, annoying, and . . . decent . . . a stand-up guy, a good friend.

You already knew that, didn't you?

We'll never be the best of friends, but from here on out, the one or two times a year I have to see him will actually be okay with me.

What else?

Have faith in yourself—it actually is possible to learn from your mistakes. I did. And this time, when I was on the spot, I didn't screw up. I believed in Hermione, trusted what we have, and did the right thing. Fucking finally.

Now let's get to the part you've been waiting for:

The wedding.

Harry, Theo and Blaise, my parents, Scorpius and I, arrive at St. Patrick's Cathedral right on time. Although they rarely close the church to the public, for our event—and to accommodate the thousand-plus guests sitting in the pews—the powers that be agreed to do just that. The hefty "donation" I gave didn't hurt either.

I keep an eye on my son as he runs up and down the aisle, stopping occasionally to bask in the attention of an adoring guest. Then I shake hands with Father Snape, the priest who'll actually be doing the deed.

"How are you feeling this afternoon, Draco? Are you ready?"

"I was born ready, Father."

"That's good to hear. Your bride's limousine has just arrived, so you can take your place at the altar."

There's no anxiety—no nervousness or fear that I'm making a mistake. No cold feet. The only thing I feel is . . . excitement. Impatience.

My mother retrieves Scorpius and they head back to the vestibule. My father and I walk up the side aisle, toward the altar.

About halfway there, he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. His grey-silver eyes, so much like my own, are filled with emotion. "If I haven't told you before, I want to make sure you know—I'm so proud of you, Son. You're a good man, you're an amazing father, and I have no doubt you'll be an outstanding husband. I'm so very proud, Draco."

Then he hugs me. Tight and secure, the kind of embrace that tells me even though I'm married and a father—he's still my dad and I'll always be his son.

"That means a lot, Dad," I say gruffly. "Thank you for being the best example of what a father, a husband, is supposed to be."

We pat each other's back. Then he taps my biceps. "Now get up there before Hermione changes her mind."

I smirk. "Highly unlikely."

He shrugs. "Better to be safe than sorry. I didn't think your mother would try backing out, either."

Haven't heard that one before. "Mom balked at marrying you?"

He slaps my back again. "That's a story for another day, Son. Go get yourself married—and enjoy every second of it."

With that, he walks to the back of the church. I meet Harry and Blaise at the altar. "You got the rings?" I ask Harry.

He taps his pocket. "Safe and sound."

When the pianist begins playing the prelude—"Angels Watching" by the O'Neill Brothers—Blaise announces, "That's our cue."

Harry grins my way and imitates the Terminator: "I'll be back." They both walk down the side aisle to the back of the church.

I'm left standing alone. Waiting.

I nod to the watching guests. One hand rests at my side, the other is folded across my lower back. I inhale a deep breath and blow it out slowly.

The string quartet in the orchestra bay begins to play Canon in D by Pachelbel.

It's game time.

The first to appear in the doorway are our parents. My father looks distinguished as he stands in the middle, my mother, wearing a plum gown, on one arm; Hermione's mother, in deep blue, is on the other. All three wear beaming smiles as they proceed down the aisle. Before my mother enters the pew, she blows me a kiss. She used to do the same thing when I was a kid, as I ran out the door to school—before I was old enough to ask her to stop.

I smile back at her meaningfully.

Next are my sister and Blaise. Pansy looks gorgeous in the strapless, burgundy bridesmaid gown Hermione chose. An ivory shawl demurely covers her shoulders: her blond hair is pinned up and curled, not a strand out of place. Her arm rests comfortably, confidently, through Blaise's. They glance at each other and I just know they're thinking of their own wedding. When they reach the altar, Blaise kisses Pansy sweetly, then they part and stand on their respective sides.

Theo and Astoria follow, arm in arm. Theo winks at a female guest as he strolls down the aisle and Astoria smiles joyfully. Brightly. If you ever wanted a good example of how a no-strings-attached hookup should be done, Theo and Astoria are it. No bad feelings, no awkwardness, just friendly, physical attraction.

After they reach the altar, it's Harry and Gin-Gin's turn—the best man and maid of honor. Wearing the same gown as my sister—instead of one of the whacked-out ensembles she typically dresses in—Ginny looks really good. She holds Harry's arm and sways her hips in time with the music, making him laugh at her silly exuberance. When they reach the altar, she looks me up and down—then gives me a thumbs-up.

I nod at her silent compliment.

Ginny stands beside my sister, and Harry takes his place to my left.

One more couple to go before Hermione makes her entrance. This couple will steal the whole fucking show. I knew it, Hermione knew it, and neither of us minded at all.

Mackenzie and Scorpius.

The flower girl and the ring bearer. The gold mine of every wedding photographer who ever worked.

Mackenzie's dress is white lace with cap sleeves. Her long hair is pulled up at the sides with white daisies woven into the crown of black braids. She's old enough to be called beautiful but still enough of a kid to be called adorable. Her blue eyes shine as she waves to me from the end of the aisle.

I wave back.

She takes my son's hand and together they make their way to me. Scorpius looks impressively lovable in his own custom Armani tux. He's surprisingly well behaved—keeping pace with Mackenzie, holding his ring-bearer pillow straight, grinning for all the cameras taking their picture.

When they reach the altar, Scorpius drops Mackenzie's hand, ditches his pillow, and runs straight to me. "Daddy!"

I scoop him up and look into his big, brown eyes.

"Is good?" he asks.

"You did great, buddy." I kiss his temple. "Go sit with Grandma Cissy and Pop Pop Lucy now, okay?"

"Otay."

I set him down and my parents receive him into their pew.

Then I straighten up. The starting notes of the "Wedding March" fill the cathedral. All the guests stand and turn toward the closed double doors.

The wooden doors open. And the air rushes from my lungs.

Because she's breathtaking. More stunning than I'd imagined—and my imagination is pretty fucking active.

Hermione's a vision in white—strapless, a sweetheart neckline with just a teasing taste of cleavage, fitted around the middle, accenting her tiny waist. Lace covers the delicate swell of her hips, flaring out behind her in a majestic train. An Irish-lace veil adorns her head, and her hair falls in shiny, dark waves beneath it. Her makeup is light, just enough to emphasize her flawless skin, full lips, and those big, chocola eyes that captivated me the moment I saw them.

She swallows hard and gazes around the crowded cathedral, looking uneasy. Anxious. Until she sees me. At the altar—waiting for her.

She holds my eyes for a second, then slowly, surely, she smiles.

And it's perfect.

My view of the world blurs, and I don't give a shit if that sounds pussified. It's true. And deserved. My chest tightens with tenderness, with the sanctity of this moment.

The music soars as Hermione holds Andre's arm, and he escorts her down the aisle. I can't take my eyes off her, and her gaze never leaves my face. When they finally arrive, I shake Andre's hand and he moves into the pew next to Jean.

Hermione offers me her hand, and, as I did the first time we met, I bring it to my lips and kiss it reverently.

"You're exquisite," I tell her softly. "I . . . have no words."

Her smile doesn't falter. "I guess there really is a first time for everything."

It's as if everyone else, the whole damn church, just fades away. And there's only the two of us. I cup her cheek and smooth her lip with my thumb. Then I lean forward and kiss her—softly and slowly and brimming with feeling.

After a few seconds, Father Snape clears his throat. Loudly. "That part comes later, son."

I end the kiss and turn to the priest, still holding Hermione's hand.

Hermione blushes and the guests' laughter echoes off the walls.

I clear my throat. "Sorry, Father. Patience has never really been my strong suit."

"Well, in this case, I don't blame you." He focuses on Hermione. "You look lovely."

"Thank you, Father." She passes her bouquet of white daisies and roses to Ginny.

"Shall we get on with it, then?" Father Snape asks.

From the first row, Scorpius yells, "Ready, set, go!"

Again, laughter ripples through the congregation.

Father Snape says, "I'll take that as a yes."

The wedding ceremony proceeds without incident—the prayers, the readings, the lighting of the unity candle. Then the moment you've all been waiting for arrives.

Father Snape asks, "Draco Lucius Malfoy, do you promise to be true to Hermione Jean Granger in good times and bad, in sickness and health? Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish her until death do you part?"

In a clear voice, I pledge, "I sure do."

Hermione's eyes hold mine and her smile is so bright—so true—as Father Snape asks her, "And do you, Hermione Jean Granger, promise to be true to Draco Lucius Malfoy in good times and bad, in sickness and health? Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish him until death do you part?"

Tears well in her beautiful brown eyes. "Yes. Yes, I do."

It takes everything I've got not to pull her to me and kiss her again.

Harry passes me the rings and Hermione holds out her hand. My throat tightens as I place her ring on her finger. "I give you this ring as a token of my love and devotion. I pledge to you all that I am, all I'll ever be. With this ring, I marry you and join my life to yours."

Hermione holds my hand for an extra moment. Then, tears slip down her cheeks as she slides my own ring on my finger, saying in a voice choked with emotion, "I give you this ring as a token of my love and devotion. I pledge to you all that I am and all that I will ever be. With this ring, I gladly marry you and join my life to yours."

Then Father Snape declares, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. What God has joined together, let no man pull asunder. You may kiss your bride."

Without hesitation, I sweep Hermione up into my arms. She laughs and wraps her arms around my neck, and our mouths fuse hot and heavy. The kiss is long and thorough and totally inappropriate for church.

Applause and whistles erupt, the church bells ring, and the musicians belt out "Ode to Joy."

Finally, reluctantly, I set Hermione on her high-heeled feet and we walk down the aisle side by side.

Hand in hand.

Husband and wife.

Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy

We take a thousand fucking pictures, in a variety of locations and every conceivable combination. Scorpius holds up like a trouper—doesn't get cranky once. The photographer had to ask Hermione and me to stop making out so we could smile for the camera. Apparently, my hand on her ass is not an acceptable pose for a wedding portrait.

But I think he's just flat-out wrong about that.

Once we all pile into the limo, Harry passes me a bottle of champagne. I pop the cork, spewing bubbles everywhere. Some splashes on my face, and Hermione leans over and slowly licks it off.

Ginny whistles.

"Mmm . . . ," Hermione hums to me. "Champagne tastes good on you, Mr. Malfoy."

I laugh. "I can think of a few other spots it'll taste even better, Mrs. Malfoy."

She giggles. "Make sure we have a bottle in the honeymoon suite tonight, then."

"Way ahead of you, baby." Her body puts Waterford crystal to shame.

I fill glasses and pass them around the limo. Blaise gives Mackenzie a sip from his, and her face scrunches up adorably with disgust.

Scorpius climbs onto his mother's lap and rests his head against her chest.

Hermione strokes his dark hair. "He's not going to last."

I take a drink from my glass. "The way you look in that dress? Neither am I."

"I thought your favorite dress was the one I'm not wearing?"

"This one is the exception. Although, I should reserve judgment until I see you out of it." I kiss her ear, then whisper into it, "After a long, exhaustive perusal . . . I'll make my preference abundantly clear."

She gazes at me tenderly, with soft adulation shining on her beautiful face. "I'm so happy, Draco."

Mission accomplished.

"Me too."

I stroke Scorpius's back and pull Hermione close with my free arm. She nuzzles my neck and rests her cheek against my collarbone. With our friends' raucous laughter all around us, we savor the moment.

The limo pulls up to the Four Seasons, where our reception is being held. Harry climbs out first, then helps Gin, who brings her glass of champagne with her. Scorpius, recharged after his mommy-cuddle, bounds out next, followed by Mackenzie, Pansy, and Blaise. When the driver offers his hand to Hermione, I tip him and say, "I got this, thanks."

Then I assist my wife out of the limousine.

My wife.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of thinking of her that way. I'm definitely gonna be looking for excuses to speak of her that way.

I escort her under the twinkling lighted archway into the building where we'll celebrate our marital bliss. Though you and I both know the real celebration happens in the honeymoon suite.

Our group arrives at the well-appointed suite adjacent to the main ballroom, where the wedding party enjoys the cocktail hour away from the prying eyes of the guests—like rock stars in the greenroom. Lauren Laforet, our wedding planner, greets us, makes sure we're good so far, then walks off dictating orders into a walkie-talkie to her minions. Ginny and Pansy have Hermione stand to "bustle" the back of her dress, so she can dance without getting stepped on and falling on her face.

I don't know what the "bustle" entails, but by the look of concentration on their faces—I don't want any part of it. I head over to the buffet and pile hors d'oeuvres onto a plate for Hermione.

Gotta keep her strength up for later.

While she stands, I feed her piece by piece. I'm guessing she didn't eat this morning because she moans and sighs with each mouthwatering bite. Or maybe she just likes sucking on my fingers—'cause she does that too.

With a knowing smirk, Hermione asks me, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

My semi-stiff dick nods. "Immensely." I slide a small, bacon-wrapped scallop between her lips, and her tongue swirls around my finger.

"So am I."

Called it. "Suck it harder," I tell her—only half joking.

She obliges.

When I reach for another piece, Hermione says, "Now, where have I heard that before?"

"Get used to hearing it more. There's a good chance it'll be my mantra for the next three weeks."

"Hello," Pansy calls from where she's crouched behind Hermione. "We can hear you. And . . . ewwww."

"Yet you'll still never be as damaged as I was by what I heard from your fucking room in Vegas."

The peroxide didn't work. Sometimes, late at night, I can still hear them.

I'm considering therapy. Or hypnosis.

She just grins slyly. "That was a great morning."

"What was a great morning?" Blaise asks, as he brings my sister a cocktail.

She looks at Blaise the way a twelve-year-old looks at a Justin Bieber poster. "Every morning with you."

He kisses her lips.

I catch Mackenzie's eye from across the room, wink, and tilt my head toward her parents. She beams back at me, and I know things at home have been back on track with Pansy and Blaise. Then Mackenzie mouths, So gross.

I just nod.

After the food, music is the second most important ingredient for a successful wedding reception. We hired a twelve-piece band, and a DJ for the songs that just sound stupid when someone other than the original artist covers them. The wedding singer—a voluptuous redhead with stellar pipes—introduces us as Mr. and Mrs. Draco Malfoy for the first time, and as our guests stand and applaud, I lead Hermione to the dance floor for the customary first dance.

It's the wedding singer's partner—a salt-and-pepper-haired guy with a smooth voice—who sings it. Hermione, being more musically inclined than I'll ever be, chose the song—but I got final approval.

"I Cross My Heart" by George Strait.

The lyrics, the tone, it's perfect for us.

And just like in the church, while we waltz around the dance floor and I hold her close against me, the thousand eyes watching us fade from our awareness. It's just me and her—and this moment.

I look into my wife's shining brown eyes, and I sing the lyrics to her that mean the most:

"You will always be the miracle that makes my life complete."

Hermione sings the next line back to me:

"And as long as there's a breath in me, I'll make yours just as sweet".

It's a sickeningly tender, crazy-in-love, never-happens-in-real-life kind of moment that I would've made fun of if I saw it in a movie or on TV.

But because it's real—because it's us—it's fucking impeccable.

Afterward, Hermione dances with my father to "The Way You Look Tonight" by Frank Sinatra. The old man's a great dancer, and he makes Hermione smile and laugh. At one point she gets choked up from whatever words he's whispering to her, and I make a mental note to ask her later on what he said.

Then my mother and I take the floor—Kenny Rogers, "Through the Years." Her eyes fill with tears as she looks at me.

"Don't cry, Mom."

She laughs self-depreciatingly. "I can't help it. You're my little boy and I'm so happy for you, Draco."

Mothers are the first woman a man will ever love—at least the good ones are. They show you how a lady should and shouldn't be treated, and they set the standard for every woman that comes after them. I really lucked out in that department.

My mother continues, "She's your match in every way. You chose so well."

I glance at Hermione, who stands beside her mother and Andre—so goddamn lovely, it makes my heart ache.

"Yeah, I really did, didn't I?" I kiss my mother's cheek. "Thank you, Mom. If it wasn't for you—I never would've been able to win over a woman like Hermione."

My mother hugs me as we finish the dance. No more words are needed.

After that, the party really gets started. The lights are turned down low, accenting the tall, candlelit centerpieces, overflowing with white blossoms. We drink, we laugh, we devour amazing culinary delights. Once Hermione and I have managed to chat with every one of our guests and thank them for joining us on our "special day," a couple approaches us.

Ron Weasley and his stripper-heeled, tiny-black-dress-wearing wife.

Yep, they're still married—six whole days now. That's a hell of a lot longer than I was betting on. I shake Weasley's hand. "Good to see you." I turn to Susan. "And with clothes on. Even better."

I told Hermione all about the hangover-shower meet-and-greet. She thought it was hysterical.

Weasley smiles. "You mind if I borrow your wife for a dance?"

Because he called her my wife, I don't mind at all. "As long as you give her back."

Hermione kisses my cheek and heads off with Hopeless.

His blushing bride goes to the bar. I stand alone, watching the swaying couples on the dance floor. Until Harry comes up, arms crossed, standing next to me, taking it all in.

He nods toward Hermione and Weasley. "You okay with that?"

"Strangely enough, I really am."

We're silent for a beat. Maybe it's just the significance of the day, but I'm feeling pretty fucking sentimental. "Have I ever thanked you for being my best friend?"

Harry smiles. "No thanks are needed. It's a mutually beneficial thing we've got going on."

"Yeah, but . . . thank you for pulling my ass out of the fire—and for kicking it when needed. Or at least . . . getting Pansy to do your dirty work for you. I don't know what I'd do without you, man."

"I feel the same way." Then he spreads his arms wide. "Let's hug it out, bitch."

I laugh, and we do just that, slapping each other on the back.

Until Ginny comes tearing up to us, holding the knife that we're soon supposed to cut the cake with.

"You son of a bitch!"

Something tells me she's not talking to Harry.

"I'm gonna stab you in your scrotum!"

This sounds serious.

As Harry restrains his wife, I ask calmly, "Is there a reason you have the sudden urge to sexually mutilate me?"

She tells her husband, "Helga just called. Documents were delivered to the house that she had to sign for. Legal documents—he changed our son's name, Harry!"

Damn it. Those weren't supposed to arrive until Hermione and I were on our honeymoon—far away, in the middle of the Mediterranean for three wonderful, na**d weeks.

Harry looks over his shoulder at me. "Seriously?"

I throw my arms up in the air. "You'll thank me one day. And so will James Sirius."

Ginny lifts the knife.

"If I didn't love you two and your son, I wouldn't bother." I let that sink in a minute. "And you're one to talk—what about that text you sent Ron from the bachelorette party? If I wasn't so evolved, that could've really fucked things up for me and Hermione. And . . . it hurt my feelings."

Did it really? No. But you play the cards you're dealt.

My admission calms Gin a little. I have a feeling she and Harry have already discussed it. "That was a joke, Draco. If I really hated you . . . I wouldn't put any effort into torturing you. I'd just ignore you completely."

Harry interjects, "We'll change his name back. It was a screwed-up attempt at a nice gesture, but we'll change it back."

I doubt they will. And if they do . . . I'll just have to be stealthier in my next attempt.

"You know...James Sirius Potter doesn't sound so bad..." well hell, the kitten has stood up to his master.

Hermione comes over, looking only half-concerned. But she still stands in front of me protectively.

"Gin-Gin? Remember we said no bloodshed on the wedding day—it's bad luck."

Gin sighs and tosses the knife on the table. "I need a drink."

Harry nods. "I'll join you."

After they're gone, Hermione turns around to me. "The papers arrived early, didn't they?"

"They did."

She shakes her head. "I told you it was a bad idea."

I wrap my arms around her because she's gorgeous when she's right. "I should've listened to you."

She smiles up at me. "Maybe we should have kept 'obey' in the vows."

She does have a point.

We dance. Slow and sweet, dirty and sweaty. At one point, while I'm grinding against Hermione's ass, Scorpius barrels onto the dance floor with Sister Beatrice Dugan hot on his heels. I pick him up, and the first nun I ever lusted after smiles with appreciation.

"Are you enjoying your celebration, Hermione?"

"I am, Sister, very much."

"I'll be praying for you both—for a long and fruitful union."

I bounce Scorpius and he squeals. "All our prayers have been answered, Sister B—save yours for someone who really needs them."

She clicks her tongue. "All newlyweds need the Lord's grace, Draco."

Disgruntled with not being the center of attention, Scorpius rectifies the situation. "Poosy!" he yells, laughing manically. "Poosy!"

I freeze, and Hermione's eyes slide closed.

Sister B smirks. "And this darling seems to have his father's disposition."

Hermione opens her eyes. "Very much so, yes."

Sister B pats Hermione's arm with sympathy. "Then I'll be praying doubly hard." She addresses our son. "Would you like a soda pop, young Scorpius?"

His eyes widen and he nods quickly. I put him down, and, holding Sister B's hand, he toddles off.

The music changes to a slower song—"All of Me" by John Legend. Without a word, Hermione raises her arms to my shoulders, I rest my hands on her lower back, and we sway in time to the beat.

That's when I notice another couple dancing off to my right—not anywhere as close as Hermione and I are—but still, for a second I'm shocked.

Because it's Mackenzie and Johnny Fucking Fitzgerald.

Her one hand is on his shoulder, his at her waist, while their other arms are bent at the elbow, hands clasped in the classic ballroom posture.

I almost pity him. Because even though it's not intentional? My girl was born to be a heartbreaker.

As I watch them silently, Johnny makes his move. Catching Mackenzie off guard, the little bastard presses his lips to hers and snatches a kiss. Her first, I'm guessing. It's chaste and over as quickly as it started.

Johnny pulls back and looks hopeful. But Mackenzie . . . she seems confused . . . until she's not. Then she rips her hand from his.

And punches him right in the gut.

"Ooof!" He folds at the waist, holding his stomach, and Mackenzie stomps off.

I help the kid off the dance floor. "You need to work on reading a chick's signals or you're gonna be getting hit a lot, Casanova."

"Kenzie hits hard for a girl," he rasps.

"She kicks harder. You got off lucky." Once he's in a chair, I pat his shoulder. "Better luck next time."

Then I return to my wife's waiting arms.

An hour later, it's speech time. Completely at ease, Harry taps his glass with a spoon and then addresses the silenced crowd.

"As the best man, I could stand up here and tell you stories about Draco and Mione. How they met, their accomplishments and battles at the office, what amazing parents they are, how devoted they are to family and friends. But that would take a long time . . . and dessert is coming." The audience chuckles. "So I'll sum it up like this: Draco is one of a kind in the greatest of ways. When God made him, he broke the mold. But he didn't want him to be alone. So he made Mione, and then he broke her mold too." Harry raises his glass and the crowd raise theirs. "If ever there was a man and a woman who were perfect for each other, who deserve each other and bring out the best in each other—it's you two. Congratulations on your marriage—may it be long and fun and frisky—and may you always look at one another the way you do today. To Draco and Mione."

Got to hand it to him—Harry knows how to give a good fucking speech.

After toasting us, the crowd calls for a kiss—which I'm more than happy to provide.

Later, after Ginny got wasted and dragged Hermione and Ron onstage to sing "That's What Friends Are For," after the cake was cut and I licked the icing off Hermione's lips, after Hermione threw her bouquet into Astoria's waiting arms, and Gin's stepbrother made a diving catch of the garter, we dance the final dance.

The floor is packed with our family, with all of our friends. In the center are me and Hermione. I hold a sleeping Scorpius with one arm, his head on my shoulder. The other arm is around Hermione's waist, holding her tight against me, her head on my chest, my lips resting against her hair.

If you've got a camera, I'd whip it out right about now—'cause that's the money shot. The picture you're going to want to remember.

My parents take Scorpius to their room for the night. Hermione and I fly out tomorrow afternoon. While we're gone, Scorpius will stay a week with my sister and Blaise, and a week with Harry and Gin. Then, my parents will bring him out to us on the Amalfi Coast in Italy. They'll take off on their own romantic getaway, and Hermione, Scorpius, and I will enjoy the last leg of the honeymoon together.

The elevator opens on the top floor. Before Hermione steps out, I sweep her into my arms and cradle her as I walk to our suite.

"You're supposed to carry me over the threshold, Draco. Not through the whole hotel."

I shrug. "I've always been an overachiever."

I open the door and carry her in. The bed is awesome. An oversize king with huge, fluffy pillows, red silk sheets, and a comforter of the softest down. Rose petals are scattered in a path to the bed and over the covers, giving off a soft but fragrant scent.

I shift Hermione in my arms and slide her down my body. Her eyes dance with happy mischief as they look into mine. "I'm going to need some help getting out of this dress."

I crack my knuckles. "You've got the right man for the job."

My fingers ghost along the silky skin of her back. I take my time with the buttons, popping each one slowly, giving Hermione's imagination time to run wild.

As the last button is released, I step closer to Hermione. I watch, fascinated, as the pulse in her neck throbs quickly with anticipation. I cover it with my mouth, sucking gently. Hermione lifts her head and leans back.

"I've thought about this all day," I whisper against her skin. "Getting you here, getting you bare."

"So have I."

With one tug, the lace and satin pools around her feet, revealing my favorite playground. Hermione steps over the dress and turns to me. Though I'm not a lingerie man, her undergarments are nothing short of beautiful. Blue silk with a white lace overlay—the bra strapless, the panties bikini, leading to sexy garters that keep opaque stockings in place.

There's wonder in Hermione's voice as she says, "You're my husband." Then she smiles giddily. "How great is that?"

I chuckle. "It's pretty fucking awesome." I step purposefully to her. "And right now, your husband wants to sixty-nine his wife." I lick my lips. "A lot."

I loosen my tie and pull it off. But when I start with the buttons of my shirt, Hermione's hand stops me. "Let me do it."

She watches her fingers as they reveal inch after inch of my heated skin. She opens my shirt, pushing it and my jacket down and off my arms. Then her hands run over my shoulders slowly, across my chest, down my abs.

In a husky voice she says, "I love your body, Draco. So strong, so hard . . . I could spend all night just touching you like this."

My heart pounds in my chest.

She opens my belt, the clasp of my pants. She crouches and kisses the happy trail. "And this right here"—her tongue traces the V of my upper pelvis, sculpted lines that show when sweats sit low on my hips—"this is my favorite part."

My breathing speeds up, and when her tongue goes back to teasing, I can't help but thrust forward, wanting it so frigging badly to be her I'm thrusting into.

Her mouth, her cunt . . . not choosy at the moment.

She drags my pants down my legs, and because of its proximity to Hermione's mouth, my cock aches. Finally naked, I sit on the bed and crook my finger at Hermione. "Come here."

She stands, and, keeping her bridal heels on, she struts to me. I grasp her hips; she braces one knee on the bed, straddling my waist. My hands move to her face, holding it still, and I kiss her roughly, sucking on her tongue, making her moan.

While I worship her mouth, Hermione's hips gyrate, seeking friction. When she finds it against my dick, I grunt. Moving to her jaw and neck, I scour her skin with my lips and teeth—sucking and nibbling—while my deft fingers unclasp her bra from behind.

When her bra falls down, I lean back for the best view. "Jesus, your tits are beautiful." I take one in my palm, massaging and kneading, before bringing it to my mouth and suckling greedily.

Hermione shouts nonsensical words and clasps my head to her breast. I lave at her nipple, then fall back on the bed, taking her with me. From this position, both of her tits are accessible—I take advantage and alternate between them—kissing and flicking each hard nipple with my tongue.

Full-out panting, Hermione rears back and her eyes meet mine. I'm burning up, needing more—I can't remember ever being this desperate for her.

"Climb up here," I say. It's meant to be an order, but it comes out as a plea. "Right fucking here."

She rises to her knees and slides her panties and garters down and off. The heels follow. Then she crawls up the bed next to me, swings her knee around, and hovers over my insatiable mouth. Taking her hips in my hands, I guide her pussy down to my face.

She's so worked up, so hot, I feel the warmth against my lips even before I taste her. But when my tongue sinks inside, my eyes roll to the back of my head.

Her taste—fuck—it gets better every time. I revel in the sensation of being surrounded by her. I think she calls my name, but my heartbeat pulses so loud in my ears, I can't be sure. While I feast on her, Hermione lowers her upper body so it's flush with my torso.

I feel her warm breath on my cock first. Then the sublime wetness of her mouth encases me—and I swear my heart stops in its tracks.

People who think this is wrong or depraved are out of their mind. If that were true, we wouldn't fit like this so fucking perfectly. We were made to do this.

My fingers dig into the flesh of her perfect ass. Holding her against me, moving her left and right in an unforgiving rhythm guaranteed to make her come. I want that so much—to feel her, my wife, pulsing around my tongue, writhing against my face.

She's not slow or teasing with her mouth now. She takes me all the way in, until I feel the back of her throat—then she sucks hard as she slides upward. Over and over, until my legs quake.

We work in tandem, giving and receiving the most salacious pleasure. She hums around me, and the vibrations push me closer to the edge. I feel the tingles in my spine, the tightening of my balls.

But I don't want to come like this—not yet. I'll certainly revisit that opportunity later, but this first time, I want to be buried deep inside her when I let go.

With renewed vigor, I find her clit with my tongue. I press against it, suck on it, then thrust inside her—stimulating all her pleasure points. When Hermione starts to buck against me, when she loses her focus on my cock and has to take her mouth off it to get in enough air—I know my actions are about to pay off.

"Draco," she whimpers against my thigh, holding on to my legs, trying to ground herself because she's about to take flight. I grasp her ass tighter. . . .

She's there. Falling. Flying. A thousand blissful eruptions coursing through her as she comes on my face and calls my name. Over and over.

Afterward, Hermione stills and her harsh breaths tickle my thighs. Taking one last lick, I maneuver her boneless limbs until she's lying on the bed and I'm above her.

She smiles into my face, looking happy and orgasm-weak. "That was so good . . . the best ever."

I can only smirk as pure masculine pride wells in my chest. "The best . . . so far."

She lifts her arms around my neck, her knees bent and resting against my ribs. "Love me, Draco. Make love to me. Please."

I drag the tip of my cock up and down over her opening, savoring the feel of her hot wetness. "Look at me, Hermione."

She gazes up at me—and I swear it feels like she's seeing into my soul. I push into her slowly, drawing the action out until our lower stomachs press together.

We're joined deeply—in every conceivable way.

My head tilts back and I shift my hips, moving in tight, close rotations. "You're so wet, Hermione . . . you feel . . . Christ, it's unbelievable."

It really is.

In the last five years, I've wondered if sex between Hermione and me would ever get stale. Ever not feel as if my blood vessels were exploding from pleasure overload.

Hasn't happened yet.

As far as I'm concerned, this cinches it. It's just going to keep getting better.

Her inner muscles contract and squeeze. At last I start to move, dragging my dick out from her heavenly pussy, then thrusting back in. Groaning louder each time.

I lift up so I can watch. Nothing is more of a turn-on than watching my cock disappear into Hermione. If I was going to go blind, that would be the last image I'd want to take into the darkness with me.

"Kiss me, Draco," she begs.

I lower my head and Hermione's tongue runs across my lips, then plunges into my mouth—tangling with my own. Our hips move together, gaining speed and force. Our moans and whispered words mingle in our mouths and along the skin of our necks and shoulders.

This is more than magnificent screwing.

More than the physical expression of love.

It's spiritual.

I don't know if there's a heaven. I sure as shit don't know if I'll ever get there. But if there is . . . it's got to feel like this. Perfect harmony with another soul, surrounded by warmth and acceptance and rapture without end.

Amen.

Hermione's hips rise to meet mine as I thrust into her again and again. Searing pleasure courses up my legs, threatening to burst, but I hold it off—because there's no way I'm going alone.

All I can pant out is "With me . . ."

Hermione gasps, "Yes . . ."

I push in deep one last time and burst inside her in a forceful pulse. Spots dance behind my closed eyes, and exhilaration floods the motherfucking marrow of my bones. Hermione constricts and throbs around me as her nails bite into my back.

After, neither of us moves for a few minutes. Not sure either of us can.

I finally manage to roll to the side, with my arms still around her—both of us breathing hard and slick with the best kind of sweat.

She brushes the damp hair off my forehead with a smile.

"Holy shit," I breathe. "That was incredible. We should've gotten married years ago."

"You said it. I think I had a stroke."

We laugh.

There are a few specific moments in my life that I consider as the greatest. That first night with Hermione. The day she believed I loved her and told me she felt the same. The day Scorpius was born.

And this . . . this moment right here just made the list.

I pull her close and touch her face. My voice is rough, heavy with emotion, as the words are torn from my lungs. "I love you, Hermione. I'm going to love you forever. And whatever comes after forever—I'm going to love you then too."

My words bring tears to her eyes, She kisses me gently, softly. Then she traces my lips with her finger. "You can bet your ass that I'm going to hold you to that, Draco Malfoy."

So that's it. The epic conclusion.

I think we've come a long away, don't you? From that guy you first met with the "flu," camped out on his living-room couch?

Boy, was he a fucking mess.

Thanks for sticking around, for not giving up on me. I know that at times you wanted to. But . . . it was great having you along for the ride.

If this were a fairy tale, now would be the time you'd read, "And they lived happily ever after . . ."

But that's just too boring for us.

So instead, I'll tell you this:

We lived . . . the same way we loved: with passion, tenderness, and laughter. And every day—every fucking day—to the very fullest.

Oh yeah, by the way, remember when I had said I refused to call her Mione? Never gave you the reason though did I, and if you are wondering... Hermione means princess, a flower, and all the stars up above, which is everything she is. Why call her by something meaningless when she was truly given a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Yeah, that's right, the asshole thought so back then as well, fucker didn't admit it though did he.

You might also want to know, Ginevra and Harry Potter have decided to keep the name, James Sirius Potter and my son, Scorpius Draco Malfoy are attached by the hip, the unbreakable duo. But of course they made me swear on Jesus to let them name their next son Albus Severus. And with the persuasion of my wife I agreed.

But yeah.

I'm still fucking brilliant.