I thought long and hard about whether this story deserved an epilogue. But I found I could not disappoint you, even when I had trouble figuring out what to write. In the end, I thought I'd leave a poem and a little scene. I will not be writing Scorpius's story, in case anyone thinks I am.

When I die

Do not adorn me,

Do not mourn me,

Lay me gentle as a petal, in my wooden chest,

Do not shed tears over me,

Lay me next to my love,

So that even in death, others may see,

That we were happy.

So that even in death, others may see,

Still we are happy.

A man stood in the cold, his winter coat dwarfing him, his grey scarf fluttering in the wind. His hair was platinum blonde, a shade that was practically copyrighted to the Malfoys. He flung a rose onto the graves that he stood in front of.

They were old when they died. The younger ones had tried to guess.

'Easily past ninety.' One would say.

'Easily past one hundred.' Someone else would reply, in a bid to win an unspoken fight.

Eventually the children would quieten.

Their graves were well-preserved - exactly as they had been when they'd been made. The Muggle children always wondered why that was. Their great-grandchildren, and their grandchildren and their own children had gathered around them before they died.

They were happy. Even near death. They were together.

Scorpius smiled as he recounted all of this. He stood slightly taller as he walked from the graves. It was no longer their story - it was an entirely new story.