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hp_goldenage2023-03-04 10:56 am
hpgoldenage_mod) wrote in hp_goldenage2023-03-04 10:56 am
Entry tags:
Salt and Pepper Fest: Sunday With Draco
Title: Sunday With Draco
Author:![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
Ladderofyears
Characters/Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 4800
Content/Warning(s): Lazy Sundays, background Albus/Scorpius, bookshop owner Draco, florist Harry, showering together, mild caregiver kink, chubby characters, domestic, farmers market, booksale, patient Harry, grandads, boys in love, golden years.
Summary/Prompt:A sweet domestic story about lazy breakfasts, overflowing library shelves and tulip bulbs. Harry and Draco are in their sixties and they're happier than ever.
A/N: Thank you to my beta, teawithpotter. Your help really helped me to fall in love with this story. Thank you to the mods for running this terrific fest.
Read on AO3 or below:
It was one of those perfect days at the end of November. Outside of the window, the sun was shining in the pale blue sky. Harry contemplated getting up and making his way to the bathroom, but then thought better of it. Draco was fast asleep beside him, snoring gently, his blond hair splayed across the pillow, his lips opened slightly, and the last thing Harry wanted to do was wake him.
They’d gotten to bed rather late the evening before. Scorpius and Albus had visited along with the grandchildren, and there’d been more games of hide-and-seek around the cottage than Harry could count. With a yawn, Harry fumbled for his glasses and wand, pushing the first onto his face and casting a Tempus with the second. A shining golden clock face materialised; it was nearly nine already.
Part of Harry wanted to stay exactly where he was. Today was Sunday, after all, a day intended for resting, as well as the only day of the week that Potter’s Blooms – his and Al’s florist shop – and Malfoy’s Antiquarian Books – run by Scorpius and Draco – were closed.
Besides, Draco was so warm, and he always looked terribly gorgeous when he woke up, all mussy haired and pink cheeked. Their present proximity meant that sexy shenanigans could, quite possibly, occur. Neither man was quite as sprightly as they’d been in former years, but that didn’t matter a single Sickle. They still had plenty of techniques to make each other feel brilliant, as well as a bottle of Potency Potion in the bedside cabinet.
But, as much as that plan was enticing, Harry thought it best that he got out of bed. Draco was still firmly in the land of nod, and that meant he had time around the house to himself. An hour at least, and Harry knew he could put it to good use.
As much as Harry loved his husband – and he did, utterly – he couldn’t deny the truth: Malfoy men were messy. They left their books in higgledy-piggledy piles. They left their clothes crumpled and untidy. Plates were left unwashed and dust left to gather.
Fifteen years before, when their sons became a couple, Draco and Scorpius had been living in the flat above their shop. It had been a dive of a place, full of teetering, overstocked bookshelves, their stock overflowing into their living space. Harry had been flabbergasted when he’d seen it, truth be told. The Draco Malfoy that he remembered from school had always appeared so orderly and fastidious. But a childhood cosseted by elves hadn’t done Draco any favours. He’d never learnt the habit of picking up after himself and, as a result, Scorpius had been much the same.
After their respective sons moved in together and married, everything had changed. Harry and Draco – widower and divorcee – had found themselves suddenly lonely. Their shops, both in prime Diagon Alley locations, were close to one another’s and their childhood enmity was a relic from another time. Their cheery arrangement of meeting for lunch and for the odd pint in the Leaky Cauldron had suddenly, astonishingly, bloomed into more.
Aged fifty, Harry James Potter had a renaissance and, like the flowers in his shop, his life bloomed into colour. Without meaning to, Harry had fallen deeply in love with Draco Malfoy.
Albus and Scorpius hadn’t been annoyed by their sudden revelation. If anything, they’d seemed rather amused by the idea that they’d only have to make one visit to see the in-laws. Grimmauld Place had been given to their sons to live in and Draco had devoted the poky Diagon flat to his growing collection of books. Lily Cottage, in the wilds of Cornish countryside, had been Harry and Draco’s home for the decade since.
Everything was rosy. Life was good. But one small problem stubbornly remained.
Draco, regrettably, was still messy. The Dursleys, boarding school, ten years as an Auror and his marriage to Ginny had taught him that a tidy environment was a tidy mind, and Harry was far too long in the tooth to change his ways now.
Hence, the crafty clean-up was born.
Harry kissed Draco on the forehead gently enough so that he didn’t wake him, and then climbed quietly out of bed and Accio’ed clothes from the wardrobe. He’d let Draco have his beauty sleep, though he scarcely needed any.
He dressed swiftly in tracksuit bottoms and a worn-out grey tee-shirt that he’d won in a sandcastle-building competition back when the kids had still been little. He pushed his wand into his pocket, slid on his slippers and tiptoed out of the room. His hair might be more grey than black, but Harry was still as stealthy as he’d been at seventeen. Carefully, Harry closed the bedroom door behind him.
As Harry was making his way down the stairs, he paused, spying a fluffy toy owl on the middle step. Smiling, he bent down to pick it up, recognising it immediately. It was Hoot the owl, belonging to Sirius, his smallest grandson.
Aged six, Sirius was all-Malfoy in appearance. He had curly blond hair and Draco’s grey eyes, and he was just getting his first bouts of accidental magic. There’d been an incident at nursery school when all the toys had stuck to the ceiling and, soon after, while visiting Ginny and Luna, Sirius had managed to turn Jake, their pet Kneazle, purple.
Entering the sitting room, Harry placed Hoot on the coffee table. He’d pop over to Grimmauld later to return Hoot to his owner. But now it was time to focus. Taking out his wand, Harry cast a Levitation Charm and collected all the dirty mugs and plates. He floated them through to the adjoining kitchen, and set them down inside the sink gently. Another flourish of his wand had the water running and the dishcloth jumping to attention. Switching off the tap, Harry looked on, pleased with his work. The pots would wash themselves while he carried on tidying.
Before he continued, Harry needed music– he tapped the wireless, switching it on. Aretha Franklin’s soulful voice poured from the speaker, and Harry hummed along while he picked up throw blankets and pillows scattered across the floor. The grandchildren had been building a den the night before and it had only taken the smallest hint of magic to stop their creation from falling down.
At last, everything was to Harry’s satisfaction. The tall vase of jasmine and sweet pea that he’d brought home on Friday gave the room a sweet, subtle scent. Above the hearth, Harry’s favourite photograph of his parents dancing stood, pride of place, surrounded by a dozen others representing his and Draco’s big, sprawling family.
Teddy was in the USA with his family. Lily was in Scotland, a professor at Hogwarts and head of Gryffindor house. James lived in Romania, managing the Dragon Sanctuary alongside Charlie. Harry missed them all terribly but was equally delighted that their lives were happy, fulfilled ones. It was all he could have wished for.
Harry’s brow wrinkled into a frown. He’d missed something during his craft clean-up. Beside the settee lay an abandoned book, William Forsyth’s Elements of Alchemy. Draco had brought it out the evening before, wanting to show Scorpius.
Picking it up, Harry placed it on the table next to Hoot. Should he leave the book there, or should he take it back to their library? It was a conundrum.
Harry didn’t want to step on Draco’s toes, but he remembered only too well how cluttered his husband’s old flat had been. If Harry left Elements of Alchemy where it was, it’d stay there forever and, by the time the week was up, three other books would have joined it. No, it had to go back; leaving books out was a dangerous precedent. If Harry wasn’t careful, their small library would migrate to every room in the house.
With a sigh, Harry snatched it up and carried it though to Draco’s domain. Extended magically, their library was larger than any passing Muggle could reasonably have imagined fitting inside their tiny thatched cottage. Even so, the room still seemed crammed and, even though they’d been married for years now, Harry didn’t have the foggiest how the books were organised. Transfiguration was shelved next to pagan religions. Magical creatures were shelved next to Quidditch history. It was all very confusing.
Harry’s fingers itched to get it all in some semblance of order… but no. That wasn't the way they lived. Their marriage worked because each wizard respected the differences of the other.
The library was Draco’s space, and because Harry loved him, he wanted to respect his boundaries. Darting in, Harry placed Elements of Alchemy in the middle of the desk, deliberately ignoring the scruffy He’s a Keeper mug, the broken quill and the dried-up inkpot. Draco was who Draco was, and that was the man that Harry had married. There wasn't any changing him now.
In any case, Harry had other, much more pressing things to think about. Half an hour had passed since he’d woken, and his stomach was protesting. Other than his husband, flowers and his family, food was Harry’s other great passion. Resultantly, both his and Draco’s figures had become quite rotund during their marriage. As a matter of fact, Harry rather enjoyed having a chubby hubby all for himself. Softer and cuddlier, Draco was handsomer than ever; he looked both well-fed and well looked after.
Arriving in the kitchen, Harry was pleased to see that his Scouring Spell had worked perfectly. The cups sat sparkling on the counter. Everything was well with the world. But what to have for breakfast? Opening the larder, Harry found eggs and a delightful local cheddar under statis. An omelette, then.
Singing along to the Beatles song that had just begun playing, Harry broke the eggs into a pan. Magic would have been an easier way to cook, but somehow Harry hadn’t ever got used to the process. There was something uniquely satisfying about making food with your own two hands. He was convinced it tasted better, too.
The smell and sizzle of the eggs and butter was scrumptious and, as usual, they seemed to hold an enchantment that awoke Sleeping Beauty from his slumber. As he was adding milk to the Draco’s Earl Grey tea, Harry heard the familiar creak of the age-old floorboards.
Picking up the Seeker for your Heart mug, Harry placed it directly in Draco’s hands.
As predicted, his just-awakened Draco looked delectable. Blond hair stuck up at every angle, his grey eyes sparkled and, when he smiled, there were laughter lines crinkled beside them. His generous belly was wrapped in a luxurious dressing gown that had been a Christmas gift from Pansy and Theo.
Closing the space between them, Harry kissed his husband’s forehead. “Morning, love. Sleep well?” he asked.
Taking a seat at the table, Draco answered. “Wonderful, thank you. Best night of sleep I’ve had in aeons. Worst part was waking up in an empty bed. It’s Sunday, Harry. Day of rest, remember? I was hoping for a lazy tumble in the sheets with my chap. But it seems you had other plans. Were the strewn-about scatter cushions and yesterday’s crumbs driving you entirely bonkers?”
Harry blushed because Draco knew him better than anyone else in the world.
“A teeny bit,” he admitted, picking up the spatula and transferring the omelette onto plates. He added triangles of toast and a sprig of parsley for garnish before placing the feast in front of Draco. “You know how I get sometimes.” Harry wriggled his eyebrows in a matter he hoped was seductive. “But that lazy tumble sounds very appealing. An early bedtime, perhaps?”
“It’s a date,” Draco said, taking up his knife and fork and leaning forward to inhale the cheesy aroma. “Fantastic nosh, Harry. You certainly know the way to a man’s heart. All this, and a crafty clear-up. You have been busy. Remind me to sleep in more often.”
“You looked too gorgeous to rouse,” Harry said, reaching for the butter. “And you’ll be happy to note that I didn’t touch your library. I poked my nose inside when I took Elements of Alchemy back to your desk. Have you been at the Extension Charms again? It seemed bigger than the last time I dared to enter.”
Draco sipped his tea before responding. “Perhaps? One does tend to lose track after a few years. Actually, you make a good point. Remind me to visit the Knockturn carpenter’s shop tomorrow. The shelves in there are getting rather crowded. A few more wouldn't go amiss.”
Harry fixed his husband with a fierce look. “Or, if you’ll allow me, I can offer a less drastic solution. You do run the foremost magical bookshop in England, Draco. You could try selling a few of them?”
“But what would be the fun in that?” Draco replied, amused. This was an almost word-for-word repeat of conversations they shared almost weekly. Harry thought that was one of the best parts of a long-term marriage. The little in-jokes and bits of history that only the two of you shared.
Relaxing in his chair, Harry took a sneaky moment just to watch Draco as he ate. It was a sight to behold. Draco was an expressive eater who made lots of small appreciative noises. It wasn’t long before his omelette was a thing of the past and Draco was giving his paunch an affectionate pat. “You’ve outdone yourself again, love,” he said.
Harry beamed. The thrill of making Draco happy hadn’t ever gotten old, and he doubted that it ever would. Finishing their breakfasts at a leisurely pace, the two made small talk about their children, their businesses and the other shopkeepers of Diagon Alley. At last, when neither wizard could eat anything else, Harry reset the Housekeeping Charms.
“Other than our early bedtime tumble,” Harry said, setting the Stasis back on the milk, “we have the whole day free, and very little to fill it. Any ideas about what you’d like to do today?”
Draco’s cheeks grew pink. “Well, Scorpius and I were talking last night,” he said. “One of the McMillan cousins is having an estate sale, over in Penzance. He was one of those ancient pureblood types, apparently. Used to be stinking rich in the old days. You never know, Harry. There might be treasure to be found.”
Chortling, Harry placed the milk and the last of the cheddar back inside the larder.
“And when you say treasure, you mean dusty old spell books filled with dubious curses and bizarre old rituals?” he answered, though his voice carried no heat. “Love, if you know the Floo coordinates, of course we’ll go. But you know the rule, Malfoy.”
“Books stay in the library,” Draco promptly answered, laughing too. “Don’t fret, Potter. I won’t pollute the cottage with my prizes. They’ll be cloistered away before you can blink.” On that, Draco stood and stretched. “But the house sale doesn't start until this afternoon. That leaves us with a couple of free hours. Shall we visit the Treloweth farmers market? Slum it with the Muggles and see if we can’t find another block of that delectable cheese?”
“Cheddar, old books and the promise of a shag?” Harry said, stepping over to where Draco stood, and sliding his arms around his husband’s middle. “Gracious. Could this day get any better?”
“Oh, it definitely could,” Draco answered. “Shall we jump in the shower?”
Their plans settled and the breakfast pots dishes cleaned and back in the cupboards, Harry eagerly followed Draco back upstairs. Stripping swiftly, they made their way to the en-suite shower, which had been charmed to fit them both.
Gods, Harry loved this part of his days. Even after so many years, Draco unclothed took Harry’s breath away.
Draco looked like a plush, spoilt prince, indulged and cosseted. As the torrent of water coursed over his body, Harry feasted his eyes. Since long before Harry could remember, he'd had the biggest pampering kink and, fortunately for him, Draco enjoyed being made a fuss of.
Gently, Harry washed Draco’s hair and soaped his rolls of soft skin reverentially. Draco murmured blissfully, enjoying the relaxed intimacy just as much as Harry did.
Afterwards, they stood together, side by side at the sink, shaving and then brushing their teeth. It was all domestic, and very mundane, and would have been easier with their wands. But magic wouldn’t have been quite the same, though.
By the time Harry and Draco arrived at the Treloweth farmers market, it was already in full swing. Two dozen stalls had been set up in the middle of the village, each covered with a bright awning and heaped with delicious local foods, clever crafts and spectacular foliage. Hand in hand, they made a tour of the stalls, chatted with their Muggle neighbours and savoured the soothing bustle of village life.
As well as the famed cheddar, Harry purchased a potent Wensleydale and a bottle of delicious ruby Port that he’d enjoyed on previous occasions. Next, they passed a stall selling dahlias, zinnias and delphiniums. Squeezing Harry’s hand, Draco whispered that “his were far superior.” Harry wasn’t really one for bragging but, secretly, he fully agreed.
Even so, Harry still brought a dozen or so tulip bulbs from his fellow florist. “I planted a few of these back when I lived at Grimmauld,” he told Draco, as they walked back towards the secret Floo in the backroom of the Black Cat public house, “but I never met with much success. Perhaps I’ll have better luck this time.”
“You will, love,” Draco encouraged. “You’ve got the greenest fingers of any wizard alive.”
They arrived at the McMillan house sale exactly on time. The Floo deposited them in an old-fashioned and very dusty lounge.
As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he surveyed old McMillan’s clutter. Glass cases filled with taxidermy competed for space with heavy mahogany furniture. Threadbare tapestries hung beside enchanted portraits of ancient, disapproving pureblood ancestors. But, thank Circe, some clever soul had already cast a Silencio on them.
Harry shivered, uncomfortable. The lives Draco and he lived now were a world away from the stuffy, intolerant Sacred Twenty-eight regime that this room represented, and Harry was very glad about that.
“Shall we look for the library?” Harry suggested, scowling at a particularly furious eighteenth-century portrait, offended that Draco and he were holding hands.
Fortunately, the McMillan library was massive, and it more than made up for their unfriendly reception. Draco’s eyes widened, and Harry swore he could almost see the cogs whirring inside his husband’s head.
“Scorpius was right,” he murmured, as if another book seller might swoop in and steal his hoard. “Old McMillan did have some rarities. I can already see a copy of Scamander’s Notes on Thestrals that looks like it’s never been opened…”
Leaning in, Harry pressed a kiss onto Draco’s forehead. “I think I've already lost you,” he joked. “You enjoy your books. Take your time.”
Only fleetingly did Draco’s eyes leave the bookcase. “Are you sure?”
“Course I am,” Harry said, knowing that, for the next hour at least, Draco would be blissfully absorbed. “Enjoy yourself.”
Draco flashed him a distracted smile. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Love you.”
Reaching out, Harry gave his husband’s hip a gentle squeeze, knowing that Draco’s mind had already flipped over to the task at hand.
Harry found himself a seat. The McMillan house was bustling with people and he was content simply to sit and watch them. Not one looked in his direction. Age had many benefits, and a certain level of anonymity was the best of them. To the busy wixens circulating around him, Harry wasn’t anything other than another older wizard, taking a load off his feet. He didn’t look anything like the lithe, angry boy that he’d been so many years before. For that, and for all the years since, Harry felt profoundly grateful.
After an hour had passed, Harry went to find Draco. As predicted, he hadn’t moved a metre away from where Harry had left him. There was a pink blush to his cheeks, his sleeves were rolled up past elbows, and a vast box stood beside him, heaped with books.
“A good haul?” Harry asked, picking up an antique copy of Tomkinson’s Thesis of Medieval Muggle and Magical Relations. The spine creaked when he opened it, and the scent of old parchment and ancient enchantments filled his nostrils. The text was small and spidery, and rather than try to decipher it, Harry closed the book. He slid it back into place on the shelf.
“Better than good,” Draco said, voice enthusiastic. “Old McMillan’s home might be a dusty pureblood museum, but the man had exquisite taste in literature. There are a few volumes here that even Father failed to find, and you know how pedantic he was about his collection. I have to admit, today has been rather thrilling, Harry.”
Despite himself – and the vast box of dusty books that would be accompanying them back to Lily Cottage – Harry couldn’t help but smile. Draco’s enthusiasm was infectious. “I can wait a while longer,” Harry suggested. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Surprisingly, Draco shook his head. “No, I think I’m done,” he admitted. “There’s another hundred I’d buy if space was no object, but I’m trying to be conservative. One doesn’t need every book in existence.”
Privately, Harry thought that Draco was making a decent stab at meeting that objective, but elected not to say it aloud. Martial harmony was more important.
“Only the one box, then,” Harry answered, taking out his wand. Casting a Levitation Spell, Harry gathered up Draco’s treasures, and together they went off to find one of the McMillan relations.
By the time they returned home it was almost three in the afternoon, and Harry marvelled as to how fast the day was vanishing. It’d be dark before long. It was curious how quickly their languid Sundays passed, filled with everything and nothing.
As Harry Levitated the box of books into Draco’s library, he thought that he ought to get started on dinner soon. Their roast would take an hour or so in the Aga, and then there were vegetables to wash, chop and butter. But, Harry reflected, there wasn’t a rush. He’d let Draco welcome his new volumes into his library – each one would have to be re-examined, skimmed through, and carefully dusted – and afterwards his husband would want to sit in the kitchen while he cooked. He liked regaling Harry with stories about his purchases and the arcane magic hidden inside their pages.
“You get those shelved while I nip into the garden,”Harry said, alighting the box on the only free space on the floor, and giving Draco a quick kiss on the lips. “I’m going to take advantage of the last bit of light and get those tulip bulbs in the ground. Then I’ll start dinner. Roast beef with all the trimmings.”
“You spoil me,” Draco answered, picking up the same copy of Scamander’s Notes on Thestrals that he’d mentioned back at the McMillan’s.
“You deserve it,” Harry countered, leaving the room. He cast a last, lingering look in Draco’s direction and closed the door of the library behind him.
After Accio’ing his thermal jacket, trowel and gardening gloves, Harry picked up the bulbs and stepped out into the back garden. He knew precisely the spot where he hoped the tulips would thrive when spring arrived: just beside the patio where Draco and he drank wine during summer evenings. Kneeling, Harry felt his knees creak. He cringed. Perhaps getting older wasn’t entirely positive.
The planting didn’t take Harry long, and when Harry returned to the house, the library door was still closed. Draco would still be rummaging and having a delightful time. Harry didn’t want to disturb him yet. He’d take Hoot back to Grimmauld, he decided, and reunite the toy owl with its owner.
“I’m just nipping over to see the boys,” Harry said, knocking on the library door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, love.” Draco made a noise of agreement and Harry picked up Hoot the owl.
Then Harry had an even bigger brainwave. He picked up the bottle of Port from where he’d left it on the table. He’d give it to Scorpius as a thank you. After all, his son-in-law’s suggestion had been an excellent one. Draco had thoroughly enjoyed himself today.
Grimmauld Place was as chaotic, warm and busy as always when Harry arrived. Albus and Scorpius were fathers of three boys, and of those, only Narcissus was old enough to be at Hogwarts.
Sirius and Jamie – eight years old and all-Potter, right down to their short-sightedness and wild black hair – abandoned their Gobstones the second Harry entered the living room, throwing their arms around him. Their little bodies were so strong and brimming with love, and their hugs always reminded Harry of his own children at the same age.
“Grandad!” Jamie shouted cheerily. “Today at Quidditch practice, Madam Smith said I was doing great, and I nearly caught the Snitch but Freddy Parkinson got in the way. He thinks he’s so good just ‘cause he’s got the new Firebolt.”
Sirius wasn’t about to be outdone by his brother. “Mrs Smith said I was good too!” he said indignantly. “Can we go out on our broomsticks, grandad? Please? Daddy said dinner will be ages.”
Laughing, Harry leant forward to kiss both of his grandson’s heads. “We’ll take them out next weekend,” he promised. “Maybe I’ll even get Draco to dust off his broom. You know, when he was at school, he was a brilliant flyer.” Harry grinned. “Second only to me.”
Sirius and Jamie looked up at Harry, their faces disbelieving. “Where is grandad Draco?” Jamie asked. “Is he talking to dad in the kitchen?”
“Draco’s back at home,” Harry answered, “which is where I ought to be getting back to. But I couldn’t let a certain little owl spend another night without his owner.”
At that, Harry reached in his pocket, pulling out Hoot. Sirius pinched the toy straight out of Harry’s hand and hugged him tightly.
“Hoot!” Scorpius exclaimed. “Thank you, grandad! I had to have a teddy bear in bed last night and he was hard and scratchy. I didn’t like him very much.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Harry said and it truly was.
By the time that Harry returned to Lily Cottage, the sun had set. The lights glowed with a warm Lumos, and Draco had finished faffing in the library. Harry found him sitting in the kitchen, sipping from a glass of wine and leafing through the Quibbler. The warmth of the Aga percolated through the room, the roast beef already inside of its belly.
“You’re back,” Draco said, looking up at Harry with deep fondness. “Were our boys all well?”
“They were perfect,” Harry answered, coming up behind Draco, and sliding his arms around his shoulders. “I gave Scorpius the bottle of Port,” he said, before trailing kisses down Draco’s cheek. “He was chuffed. Sirius was chuffed to get Hoot back. Big smiles all around.”
Sighing, Draco lent in to the affection. “That was kind of you, Harry,” he answered. “I think that’s the thing I love most about you. Your big heart. Oh, and your dinners. Can’t forget about those… I’ve had a lovely day, darling. Have you had a lovely day too?”
“I couldn’t imagine a better one,” Harry answered. “And, talking of dinners, I ought to be prepping the rest of ours. Otherwise, we’ll be eating charred beef with crunchy carrots.” He kissed the top of Draco’s head, before taking his apron from its hook. “That wouldn’t be much fun. How are your new treasures? Have they taken a place of pride in your collection?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Draco answered. “There are illustrations in a few that look as bright as the day they were painted… Some of those books must have been in the McMillan family for the best part of a century.”
Draco talked and Harry listened, nodding at the appropriate points. As he scraped and buttered the vegetables and stirred the gravy, he thought back over the experiences they'd shared that day. He hadn’t been fibbing when he’d said he couldn’t imagine a better one.
Harry was still amazed that this was his life; an existence devoid of strife and harsh words. From time to time, he wished that Draco and he could have found each other when they were younger and had more years before them, but that feeling soon ended. They'd found each other and were making the most of their golden years together.
Author:
Characters/Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 4800
Content/Warning(s): Lazy Sundays, background Albus/Scorpius, bookshop owner Draco, florist Harry, showering together, mild caregiver kink, chubby characters, domestic, farmers market, booksale, patient Harry, grandads, boys in love, golden years.
Summary/Prompt:A sweet domestic story about lazy breakfasts, overflowing library shelves and tulip bulbs. Harry and Draco are in their sixties and they're happier than ever.
A/N: Thank you to my beta, teawithpotter. Your help really helped me to fall in love with this story. Thank you to the mods for running this terrific fest.
Read on AO3 or below:
It was one of those perfect days at the end of November. Outside of the window, the sun was shining in the pale blue sky. Harry contemplated getting up and making his way to the bathroom, but then thought better of it. Draco was fast asleep beside him, snoring gently, his blond hair splayed across the pillow, his lips opened slightly, and the last thing Harry wanted to do was wake him.
They’d gotten to bed rather late the evening before. Scorpius and Albus had visited along with the grandchildren, and there’d been more games of hide-and-seek around the cottage than Harry could count. With a yawn, Harry fumbled for his glasses and wand, pushing the first onto his face and casting a Tempus with the second. A shining golden clock face materialised; it was nearly nine already.
Part of Harry wanted to stay exactly where he was. Today was Sunday, after all, a day intended for resting, as well as the only day of the week that Potter’s Blooms – his and Al’s florist shop – and Malfoy’s Antiquarian Books – run by Scorpius and Draco – were closed.
Besides, Draco was so warm, and he always looked terribly gorgeous when he woke up, all mussy haired and pink cheeked. Their present proximity meant that sexy shenanigans could, quite possibly, occur. Neither man was quite as sprightly as they’d been in former years, but that didn’t matter a single Sickle. They still had plenty of techniques to make each other feel brilliant, as well as a bottle of Potency Potion in the bedside cabinet.
But, as much as that plan was enticing, Harry thought it best that he got out of bed. Draco was still firmly in the land of nod, and that meant he had time around the house to himself. An hour at least, and Harry knew he could put it to good use.
As much as Harry loved his husband – and he did, utterly – he couldn’t deny the truth: Malfoy men were messy. They left their books in higgledy-piggledy piles. They left their clothes crumpled and untidy. Plates were left unwashed and dust left to gather.
Fifteen years before, when their sons became a couple, Draco and Scorpius had been living in the flat above their shop. It had been a dive of a place, full of teetering, overstocked bookshelves, their stock overflowing into their living space. Harry had been flabbergasted when he’d seen it, truth be told. The Draco Malfoy that he remembered from school had always appeared so orderly and fastidious. But a childhood cosseted by elves hadn’t done Draco any favours. He’d never learnt the habit of picking up after himself and, as a result, Scorpius had been much the same.
After their respective sons moved in together and married, everything had changed. Harry and Draco – widower and divorcee – had found themselves suddenly lonely. Their shops, both in prime Diagon Alley locations, were close to one another’s and their childhood enmity was a relic from another time. Their cheery arrangement of meeting for lunch and for the odd pint in the Leaky Cauldron had suddenly, astonishingly, bloomed into more.
Aged fifty, Harry James Potter had a renaissance and, like the flowers in his shop, his life bloomed into colour. Without meaning to, Harry had fallen deeply in love with Draco Malfoy.
Albus and Scorpius hadn’t been annoyed by their sudden revelation. If anything, they’d seemed rather amused by the idea that they’d only have to make one visit to see the in-laws. Grimmauld Place had been given to their sons to live in and Draco had devoted the poky Diagon flat to his growing collection of books. Lily Cottage, in the wilds of Cornish countryside, had been Harry and Draco’s home for the decade since.
Everything was rosy. Life was good. But one small problem stubbornly remained.
Draco, regrettably, was still messy. The Dursleys, boarding school, ten years as an Auror and his marriage to Ginny had taught him that a tidy environment was a tidy mind, and Harry was far too long in the tooth to change his ways now.
Hence, the crafty clean-up was born.
Harry kissed Draco on the forehead gently enough so that he didn’t wake him, and then climbed quietly out of bed and Accio’ed clothes from the wardrobe. He’d let Draco have his beauty sleep, though he scarcely needed any.
He dressed swiftly in tracksuit bottoms and a worn-out grey tee-shirt that he’d won in a sandcastle-building competition back when the kids had still been little. He pushed his wand into his pocket, slid on his slippers and tiptoed out of the room. His hair might be more grey than black, but Harry was still as stealthy as he’d been at seventeen. Carefully, Harry closed the bedroom door behind him.
As Harry was making his way down the stairs, he paused, spying a fluffy toy owl on the middle step. Smiling, he bent down to pick it up, recognising it immediately. It was Hoot the owl, belonging to Sirius, his smallest grandson.
Aged six, Sirius was all-Malfoy in appearance. He had curly blond hair and Draco’s grey eyes, and he was just getting his first bouts of accidental magic. There’d been an incident at nursery school when all the toys had stuck to the ceiling and, soon after, while visiting Ginny and Luna, Sirius had managed to turn Jake, their pet Kneazle, purple.
Entering the sitting room, Harry placed Hoot on the coffee table. He’d pop over to Grimmauld later to return Hoot to his owner. But now it was time to focus. Taking out his wand, Harry cast a Levitation Charm and collected all the dirty mugs and plates. He floated them through to the adjoining kitchen, and set them down inside the sink gently. Another flourish of his wand had the water running and the dishcloth jumping to attention. Switching off the tap, Harry looked on, pleased with his work. The pots would wash themselves while he carried on tidying.
Before he continued, Harry needed music– he tapped the wireless, switching it on. Aretha Franklin’s soulful voice poured from the speaker, and Harry hummed along while he picked up throw blankets and pillows scattered across the floor. The grandchildren had been building a den the night before and it had only taken the smallest hint of magic to stop their creation from falling down.
At last, everything was to Harry’s satisfaction. The tall vase of jasmine and sweet pea that he’d brought home on Friday gave the room a sweet, subtle scent. Above the hearth, Harry’s favourite photograph of his parents dancing stood, pride of place, surrounded by a dozen others representing his and Draco’s big, sprawling family.
Teddy was in the USA with his family. Lily was in Scotland, a professor at Hogwarts and head of Gryffindor house. James lived in Romania, managing the Dragon Sanctuary alongside Charlie. Harry missed them all terribly but was equally delighted that their lives were happy, fulfilled ones. It was all he could have wished for.
Harry’s brow wrinkled into a frown. He’d missed something during his craft clean-up. Beside the settee lay an abandoned book, William Forsyth’s Elements of Alchemy. Draco had brought it out the evening before, wanting to show Scorpius.
Picking it up, Harry placed it on the table next to Hoot. Should he leave the book there, or should he take it back to their library? It was a conundrum.
Harry didn’t want to step on Draco’s toes, but he remembered only too well how cluttered his husband’s old flat had been. If Harry left Elements of Alchemy where it was, it’d stay there forever and, by the time the week was up, three other books would have joined it. No, it had to go back; leaving books out was a dangerous precedent. If Harry wasn’t careful, their small library would migrate to every room in the house.
With a sigh, Harry snatched it up and carried it though to Draco’s domain. Extended magically, their library was larger than any passing Muggle could reasonably have imagined fitting inside their tiny thatched cottage. Even so, the room still seemed crammed and, even though they’d been married for years now, Harry didn’t have the foggiest how the books were organised. Transfiguration was shelved next to pagan religions. Magical creatures were shelved next to Quidditch history. It was all very confusing.
Harry’s fingers itched to get it all in some semblance of order… but no. That wasn't the way they lived. Their marriage worked because each wizard respected the differences of the other.
The library was Draco’s space, and because Harry loved him, he wanted to respect his boundaries. Darting in, Harry placed Elements of Alchemy in the middle of the desk, deliberately ignoring the scruffy He’s a Keeper mug, the broken quill and the dried-up inkpot. Draco was who Draco was, and that was the man that Harry had married. There wasn't any changing him now.
In any case, Harry had other, much more pressing things to think about. Half an hour had passed since he’d woken, and his stomach was protesting. Other than his husband, flowers and his family, food was Harry’s other great passion. Resultantly, both his and Draco’s figures had become quite rotund during their marriage. As a matter of fact, Harry rather enjoyed having a chubby hubby all for himself. Softer and cuddlier, Draco was handsomer than ever; he looked both well-fed and well looked after.
Arriving in the kitchen, Harry was pleased to see that his Scouring Spell had worked perfectly. The cups sat sparkling on the counter. Everything was well with the world. But what to have for breakfast? Opening the larder, Harry found eggs and a delightful local cheddar under statis. An omelette, then.
Singing along to the Beatles song that had just begun playing, Harry broke the eggs into a pan. Magic would have been an easier way to cook, but somehow Harry hadn’t ever got used to the process. There was something uniquely satisfying about making food with your own two hands. He was convinced it tasted better, too.
The smell and sizzle of the eggs and butter was scrumptious and, as usual, they seemed to hold an enchantment that awoke Sleeping Beauty from his slumber. As he was adding milk to the Draco’s Earl Grey tea, Harry heard the familiar creak of the age-old floorboards.
Picking up the Seeker for your Heart mug, Harry placed it directly in Draco’s hands.
As predicted, his just-awakened Draco looked delectable. Blond hair stuck up at every angle, his grey eyes sparkled and, when he smiled, there were laughter lines crinkled beside them. His generous belly was wrapped in a luxurious dressing gown that had been a Christmas gift from Pansy and Theo.
Closing the space between them, Harry kissed his husband’s forehead. “Morning, love. Sleep well?” he asked.
Taking a seat at the table, Draco answered. “Wonderful, thank you. Best night of sleep I’ve had in aeons. Worst part was waking up in an empty bed. It’s Sunday, Harry. Day of rest, remember? I was hoping for a lazy tumble in the sheets with my chap. But it seems you had other plans. Were the strewn-about scatter cushions and yesterday’s crumbs driving you entirely bonkers?”
Harry blushed because Draco knew him better than anyone else in the world.
“A teeny bit,” he admitted, picking up the spatula and transferring the omelette onto plates. He added triangles of toast and a sprig of parsley for garnish before placing the feast in front of Draco. “You know how I get sometimes.” Harry wriggled his eyebrows in a matter he hoped was seductive. “But that lazy tumble sounds very appealing. An early bedtime, perhaps?”
“It’s a date,” Draco said, taking up his knife and fork and leaning forward to inhale the cheesy aroma. “Fantastic nosh, Harry. You certainly know the way to a man’s heart. All this, and a crafty clear-up. You have been busy. Remind me to sleep in more often.”
“You looked too gorgeous to rouse,” Harry said, reaching for the butter. “And you’ll be happy to note that I didn’t touch your library. I poked my nose inside when I took Elements of Alchemy back to your desk. Have you been at the Extension Charms again? It seemed bigger than the last time I dared to enter.”
Draco sipped his tea before responding. “Perhaps? One does tend to lose track after a few years. Actually, you make a good point. Remind me to visit the Knockturn carpenter’s shop tomorrow. The shelves in there are getting rather crowded. A few more wouldn't go amiss.”
Harry fixed his husband with a fierce look. “Or, if you’ll allow me, I can offer a less drastic solution. You do run the foremost magical bookshop in England, Draco. You could try selling a few of them?”
“But what would be the fun in that?” Draco replied, amused. This was an almost word-for-word repeat of conversations they shared almost weekly. Harry thought that was one of the best parts of a long-term marriage. The little in-jokes and bits of history that only the two of you shared.
Relaxing in his chair, Harry took a sneaky moment just to watch Draco as he ate. It was a sight to behold. Draco was an expressive eater who made lots of small appreciative noises. It wasn’t long before his omelette was a thing of the past and Draco was giving his paunch an affectionate pat. “You’ve outdone yourself again, love,” he said.
Harry beamed. The thrill of making Draco happy hadn’t ever gotten old, and he doubted that it ever would. Finishing their breakfasts at a leisurely pace, the two made small talk about their children, their businesses and the other shopkeepers of Diagon Alley. At last, when neither wizard could eat anything else, Harry reset the Housekeeping Charms.
“Other than our early bedtime tumble,” Harry said, setting the Stasis back on the milk, “we have the whole day free, and very little to fill it. Any ideas about what you’d like to do today?”
Draco’s cheeks grew pink. “Well, Scorpius and I were talking last night,” he said. “One of the McMillan cousins is having an estate sale, over in Penzance. He was one of those ancient pureblood types, apparently. Used to be stinking rich in the old days. You never know, Harry. There might be treasure to be found.”
Chortling, Harry placed the milk and the last of the cheddar back inside the larder.
“And when you say treasure, you mean dusty old spell books filled with dubious curses and bizarre old rituals?” he answered, though his voice carried no heat. “Love, if you know the Floo coordinates, of course we’ll go. But you know the rule, Malfoy.”
“Books stay in the library,” Draco promptly answered, laughing too. “Don’t fret, Potter. I won’t pollute the cottage with my prizes. They’ll be cloistered away before you can blink.” On that, Draco stood and stretched. “But the house sale doesn't start until this afternoon. That leaves us with a couple of free hours. Shall we visit the Treloweth farmers market? Slum it with the Muggles and see if we can’t find another block of that delectable cheese?”
“Cheddar, old books and the promise of a shag?” Harry said, stepping over to where Draco stood, and sliding his arms around his husband’s middle. “Gracious. Could this day get any better?”
“Oh, it definitely could,” Draco answered. “Shall we jump in the shower?”
Their plans settled and the breakfast pots dishes cleaned and back in the cupboards, Harry eagerly followed Draco back upstairs. Stripping swiftly, they made their way to the en-suite shower, which had been charmed to fit them both.
Gods, Harry loved this part of his days. Even after so many years, Draco unclothed took Harry’s breath away.
Draco looked like a plush, spoilt prince, indulged and cosseted. As the torrent of water coursed over his body, Harry feasted his eyes. Since long before Harry could remember, he'd had the biggest pampering kink and, fortunately for him, Draco enjoyed being made a fuss of.
Gently, Harry washed Draco’s hair and soaped his rolls of soft skin reverentially. Draco murmured blissfully, enjoying the relaxed intimacy just as much as Harry did.
Afterwards, they stood together, side by side at the sink, shaving and then brushing their teeth. It was all domestic, and very mundane, and would have been easier with their wands. But magic wouldn’t have been quite the same, though.
By the time Harry and Draco arrived at the Treloweth farmers market, it was already in full swing. Two dozen stalls had been set up in the middle of the village, each covered with a bright awning and heaped with delicious local foods, clever crafts and spectacular foliage. Hand in hand, they made a tour of the stalls, chatted with their Muggle neighbours and savoured the soothing bustle of village life.
As well as the famed cheddar, Harry purchased a potent Wensleydale and a bottle of delicious ruby Port that he’d enjoyed on previous occasions. Next, they passed a stall selling dahlias, zinnias and delphiniums. Squeezing Harry’s hand, Draco whispered that “his were far superior.” Harry wasn’t really one for bragging but, secretly, he fully agreed.
Even so, Harry still brought a dozen or so tulip bulbs from his fellow florist. “I planted a few of these back when I lived at Grimmauld,” he told Draco, as they walked back towards the secret Floo in the backroom of the Black Cat public house, “but I never met with much success. Perhaps I’ll have better luck this time.”
“You will, love,” Draco encouraged. “You’ve got the greenest fingers of any wizard alive.”
They arrived at the McMillan house sale exactly on time. The Floo deposited them in an old-fashioned and very dusty lounge.
As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he surveyed old McMillan’s clutter. Glass cases filled with taxidermy competed for space with heavy mahogany furniture. Threadbare tapestries hung beside enchanted portraits of ancient, disapproving pureblood ancestors. But, thank Circe, some clever soul had already cast a Silencio on them.
Harry shivered, uncomfortable. The lives Draco and he lived now were a world away from the stuffy, intolerant Sacred Twenty-eight regime that this room represented, and Harry was very glad about that.
“Shall we look for the library?” Harry suggested, scowling at a particularly furious eighteenth-century portrait, offended that Draco and he were holding hands.
Fortunately, the McMillan library was massive, and it more than made up for their unfriendly reception. Draco’s eyes widened, and Harry swore he could almost see the cogs whirring inside his husband’s head.
“Scorpius was right,” he murmured, as if another book seller might swoop in and steal his hoard. “Old McMillan did have some rarities. I can already see a copy of Scamander’s Notes on Thestrals that looks like it’s never been opened…”
Leaning in, Harry pressed a kiss onto Draco’s forehead. “I think I've already lost you,” he joked. “You enjoy your books. Take your time.”
Only fleetingly did Draco’s eyes leave the bookcase. “Are you sure?”
“Course I am,” Harry said, knowing that, for the next hour at least, Draco would be blissfully absorbed. “Enjoy yourself.”
Draco flashed him a distracted smile. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Love you.”
Reaching out, Harry gave his husband’s hip a gentle squeeze, knowing that Draco’s mind had already flipped over to the task at hand.
Harry found himself a seat. The McMillan house was bustling with people and he was content simply to sit and watch them. Not one looked in his direction. Age had many benefits, and a certain level of anonymity was the best of them. To the busy wixens circulating around him, Harry wasn’t anything other than another older wizard, taking a load off his feet. He didn’t look anything like the lithe, angry boy that he’d been so many years before. For that, and for all the years since, Harry felt profoundly grateful.
After an hour had passed, Harry went to find Draco. As predicted, he hadn’t moved a metre away from where Harry had left him. There was a pink blush to his cheeks, his sleeves were rolled up past elbows, and a vast box stood beside him, heaped with books.
“A good haul?” Harry asked, picking up an antique copy of Tomkinson’s Thesis of Medieval Muggle and Magical Relations. The spine creaked when he opened it, and the scent of old parchment and ancient enchantments filled his nostrils. The text was small and spidery, and rather than try to decipher it, Harry closed the book. He slid it back into place on the shelf.
“Better than good,” Draco said, voice enthusiastic. “Old McMillan’s home might be a dusty pureblood museum, but the man had exquisite taste in literature. There are a few volumes here that even Father failed to find, and you know how pedantic he was about his collection. I have to admit, today has been rather thrilling, Harry.”
Despite himself – and the vast box of dusty books that would be accompanying them back to Lily Cottage – Harry couldn’t help but smile. Draco’s enthusiasm was infectious. “I can wait a while longer,” Harry suggested. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Surprisingly, Draco shook his head. “No, I think I’m done,” he admitted. “There’s another hundred I’d buy if space was no object, but I’m trying to be conservative. One doesn’t need every book in existence.”
Privately, Harry thought that Draco was making a decent stab at meeting that objective, but elected not to say it aloud. Martial harmony was more important.
“Only the one box, then,” Harry answered, taking out his wand. Casting a Levitation Spell, Harry gathered up Draco’s treasures, and together they went off to find one of the McMillan relations.
By the time they returned home it was almost three in the afternoon, and Harry marvelled as to how fast the day was vanishing. It’d be dark before long. It was curious how quickly their languid Sundays passed, filled with everything and nothing.
As Harry Levitated the box of books into Draco’s library, he thought that he ought to get started on dinner soon. Their roast would take an hour or so in the Aga, and then there were vegetables to wash, chop and butter. But, Harry reflected, there wasn’t a rush. He’d let Draco welcome his new volumes into his library – each one would have to be re-examined, skimmed through, and carefully dusted – and afterwards his husband would want to sit in the kitchen while he cooked. He liked regaling Harry with stories about his purchases and the arcane magic hidden inside their pages.
“You get those shelved while I nip into the garden,”Harry said, alighting the box on the only free space on the floor, and giving Draco a quick kiss on the lips. “I’m going to take advantage of the last bit of light and get those tulip bulbs in the ground. Then I’ll start dinner. Roast beef with all the trimmings.”
“You spoil me,” Draco answered, picking up the same copy of Scamander’s Notes on Thestrals that he’d mentioned back at the McMillan’s.
“You deserve it,” Harry countered, leaving the room. He cast a last, lingering look in Draco’s direction and closed the door of the library behind him.
After Accio’ing his thermal jacket, trowel and gardening gloves, Harry picked up the bulbs and stepped out into the back garden. He knew precisely the spot where he hoped the tulips would thrive when spring arrived: just beside the patio where Draco and he drank wine during summer evenings. Kneeling, Harry felt his knees creak. He cringed. Perhaps getting older wasn’t entirely positive.
The planting didn’t take Harry long, and when Harry returned to the house, the library door was still closed. Draco would still be rummaging and having a delightful time. Harry didn’t want to disturb him yet. He’d take Hoot back to Grimmauld, he decided, and reunite the toy owl with its owner.
“I’m just nipping over to see the boys,” Harry said, knocking on the library door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, love.” Draco made a noise of agreement and Harry picked up Hoot the owl.
Then Harry had an even bigger brainwave. He picked up the bottle of Port from where he’d left it on the table. He’d give it to Scorpius as a thank you. After all, his son-in-law’s suggestion had been an excellent one. Draco had thoroughly enjoyed himself today.
Grimmauld Place was as chaotic, warm and busy as always when Harry arrived. Albus and Scorpius were fathers of three boys, and of those, only Narcissus was old enough to be at Hogwarts.
Sirius and Jamie – eight years old and all-Potter, right down to their short-sightedness and wild black hair – abandoned their Gobstones the second Harry entered the living room, throwing their arms around him. Their little bodies were so strong and brimming with love, and their hugs always reminded Harry of his own children at the same age.
“Grandad!” Jamie shouted cheerily. “Today at Quidditch practice, Madam Smith said I was doing great, and I nearly caught the Snitch but Freddy Parkinson got in the way. He thinks he’s so good just ‘cause he’s got the new Firebolt.”
Sirius wasn’t about to be outdone by his brother. “Mrs Smith said I was good too!” he said indignantly. “Can we go out on our broomsticks, grandad? Please? Daddy said dinner will be ages.”
Laughing, Harry leant forward to kiss both of his grandson’s heads. “We’ll take them out next weekend,” he promised. “Maybe I’ll even get Draco to dust off his broom. You know, when he was at school, he was a brilliant flyer.” Harry grinned. “Second only to me.”
Sirius and Jamie looked up at Harry, their faces disbelieving. “Where is grandad Draco?” Jamie asked. “Is he talking to dad in the kitchen?”
“Draco’s back at home,” Harry answered, “which is where I ought to be getting back to. But I couldn’t let a certain little owl spend another night without his owner.”
At that, Harry reached in his pocket, pulling out Hoot. Sirius pinched the toy straight out of Harry’s hand and hugged him tightly.
“Hoot!” Scorpius exclaimed. “Thank you, grandad! I had to have a teddy bear in bed last night and he was hard and scratchy. I didn’t like him very much.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Harry said and it truly was.
By the time that Harry returned to Lily Cottage, the sun had set. The lights glowed with a warm Lumos, and Draco had finished faffing in the library. Harry found him sitting in the kitchen, sipping from a glass of wine and leafing through the Quibbler. The warmth of the Aga percolated through the room, the roast beef already inside of its belly.
“You’re back,” Draco said, looking up at Harry with deep fondness. “Were our boys all well?”
“They were perfect,” Harry answered, coming up behind Draco, and sliding his arms around his shoulders. “I gave Scorpius the bottle of Port,” he said, before trailing kisses down Draco’s cheek. “He was chuffed. Sirius was chuffed to get Hoot back. Big smiles all around.”
Sighing, Draco lent in to the affection. “That was kind of you, Harry,” he answered. “I think that’s the thing I love most about you. Your big heart. Oh, and your dinners. Can’t forget about those… I’ve had a lovely day, darling. Have you had a lovely day too?”
“I couldn’t imagine a better one,” Harry answered. “And, talking of dinners, I ought to be prepping the rest of ours. Otherwise, we’ll be eating charred beef with crunchy carrots.” He kissed the top of Draco’s head, before taking his apron from its hook. “That wouldn’t be much fun. How are your new treasures? Have they taken a place of pride in your collection?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Draco answered. “There are illustrations in a few that look as bright as the day they were painted… Some of those books must have been in the McMillan family for the best part of a century.”
Draco talked and Harry listened, nodding at the appropriate points. As he scraped and buttered the vegetables and stirred the gravy, he thought back over the experiences they'd shared that day. He hadn’t been fibbing when he’d said he couldn’t imagine a better one.
Harry was still amazed that this was his life; an existence devoid of strife and harsh words. From time to time, he wished that Draco and he could have found each other when they were younger and had more years before them, but that feeling soon ended. They'd found each other and were making the most of their golden years together.
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