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Harry opened his eyes and smiled.
He could smell the coffee in the kitchen and the frying bacon that went with it. Downstairs, he could hear his kids laughing and shouting at one another: apparently, Lily had lost her favourite pair of socks; Scorpius accused Albus of stealing them, and James – the probable culprit – had instigated the whole situation.
In his bed, Harry could feel the soft cushions – the imported silk bedding he’d been so reluctant about at first. On the wall, he could see a myriad of photos: his kids appeared in various poses; Ron and Hermione danced in the sunset on their wedding day; he and Draco kissed beneath the Eiffel Tower.
“Feeling lazy, are we?” Speaking of the devil.
“You could join me and be lazy,” he murmured, burying himself in the cushions.
“Come on, old man. It’s the first of September!” Draco climbed onto the bed, trying to haul him out. But years as a professional Quidditch player had left Harry stronger, and he pulled Draco down instead.
“I don’t want the kids to leave. We could hide them away. Make them stay with us,” he whined, hugging his husband.
“We’re adults, and we’ll support our children as they grow up,” Draco smiled, hugging him back. “Besides, Lily’s staying at the Burrow this weekend. We’ll have the house to ourselves. Fancy that?”
“Hmm. You make a compelling argument, Mister Wizengamot lawyer,” Harry closed his eyes and smiled.
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years.
All was well.