EPILOGUE.

1. To the bunker! It’s an invasion!

Draco and Whatsername Malfoy were just settling down to a typically lavish breakfast, when nearly five dozen owls stormed Malfoy Manor.

If you’re bad at maths, nearly five dozen owls = quite a lot of owls. Draco was bad at maths, so he performed a quick calculation charm to determine that fifty-five winged birds (are there any other kind?) had besieged him. Feathers and tea were everywhere, and Whatsername was shrieking in disgust.

Feathers, she could abide, but she had an irrational fear of tea.

Draco summoned his army of House Elves to handle the sudden influx of post, and carried on eating his eggs. It was beneath him, after all, to engage in such a plebeian task as opening his own post.

2. A great day for a picnic. What?

Miles away, in Godric’s Hollow, the Potters were under a similar attack. Harry, however, only had a single, ancient House Elf and a single, ginger wife to help him sort it out. James had fucked off to Canada with an androgynous Quidditch player, and therefore was exempt from the daunting task.

Harry sighed a worried sigh, and grabbed an owl. Surely only the rise of another Voldemort-type could elicit such a postal tide, and he’d honestly had enough of that shit when he was in school.

3. And what have I done to deserve this?

Draco glared at the pile of parchment.

Fifty-five letters, from fifty-five different people, telling him in fifty-five ways that his son was gayer than a leather piñata. He vanished the lot, then poured himself a double-brandy.

The gay part was nothing. Hell, he’d known Scorpius was gay from the time he’d gotten his first Harry Potter Chocolate Frog card and didn’t stop licking it even after all the chocolate smudges were gone. And then kept it under his pillow, probably licking worse smudges off it later. Draco shivered with a sudden chill of Too Much Information, and downed his drink.

The whole Potter aspect was just a touch disconcerting.

Draco had spent the majority of his time at Hogwarts being fucked by Potter (and not in the way he’d have liked, thank you), and now Potter’s son was picking up the habit (only in the way that he was sure Scorpius liked very much).

Were Malfoys destined to be fucked by Potters for all eternity, or what?

4. You and I travel to the beat of a different drum.

Harry read each parchment carefully, placing them face-down in a neat stack as he went so that Ginny could read them in order later, then put them in Al’s baby book.

Apparently, their son was gay. Harry and Ginny both knew this already. The issues of Broomstick Polisher Monthly that Albus had been (not so secretly) receiving since he was fifteen were not coming from Quality Quidditch Supplies, after all.

Apparently, he was buggering Scorpius Malfoy. Harry and Ginny did not know this. Nothing in BPM would have clued them in.

Harry hoped Albus was using that nice currant-flavoured oil he’d been gifted for his last birthday.

5. Well, it could have been worse.

After drinking an entire bottle of very nice blackberry brandy, Draco set pill to quarchment and composed what he hoped was a letter.

S, he wrote, then giggled amusedly (was there any other way?). It was a very nice letter.

-corpius,

I see you have been caught out with Alpus Botter. Albus Potter. I’ve decided to drink your inheritance.

Love, Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus. Wait. That’s the school motto. I meant Father. Not the school’s father, but yours. Though Merlin knows I could be the school’s father, with all the women I slept with before I met your mother. Never mind that. I’m drunk, and people always write crap when they’re dunk. Drunk. Damnit, Whatsername, where are the Self-Correcting Quills? Shit. Meant to say that out loud.

Draco called for an Elf to post the letter to Scorpius, then opened a bottle of mulberry wine. He liked fruity drinks.

6. To thine own self be true.

Harry and Ginny sent Thank You notes to everyone who’d sent an owl. It was the least they could do, seeing as how people had gone to so much trouble.

After that was done, they each wrote a letter of support to Albus.

Ginny’s read thus:

Albus,

How is school? Do you like the socks I sent? Gran Weasley knitted them for you, so you’d better wear them. She’s a bit on in years, and her knitting spells aren’t what they used to be, but she loves to make things for you.

I’m glad to hear you’ve found yourself a little friend. How nice for you!

Love, Mum

P.S. Wear the socks, Albus.

Harry’s letter was written under cover of darkness, and it read thus:
Son,

Nice one, getting yourself a Malfoy! I used to have a bit of a thing for his father, you know, when we were your age. Great arse on him.

Anyway, hope you’re enjoying yourself. I’m sending along a new bottle of oil. Your Uncle George swears by this stuff, so I’m sure you’ll like it as well.

Love, Dad

P.S. Remember that room I was telling you about? Take Scorpius there and show him what Potters are made of!

P.P.S. Burn this.

7. Aw, man!

The breakfast atmosphere at Hogwarts was tense. No, not for Scorpius and Albus, but for the hundred and eleven students who’d queued up outside the owlery the day before. They were now awaiting the arrival of at least two howlers, and were gearing up for the impending vocal explosion.

It was never to come.

Fifty-six students did receive Thank Yous, however. One (un)lucky sod got a pair of orange woollen socks, but that was purely by accident.

8. All was well.

After breakfast, since it was a lovely Monday morning, Albus decided it was a great day to skive off Potions and spend the time snogging Scorpius. They’d read (and burned) their letters, so the morning was all theirs.

And Albus had a new bottle of fruit punch-flavoured lube he was wanting to try, and the perfect place to do it.

- END -

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Chapter Three: One Hell of a First Date
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