"I'll try my very best not to kill you. I'd hate to have to murder Potter in self-defence," Draco promised mock-earnestly, happiness bubbling uncontrollably up in his chest, because the war wasn't over but it was his birthday, and Hermione was smiling at him with a broomstick in hand – and Weasley was stuffing himself with cake, and Potter was canoodling with Ginny Weasley, and Angelina Johnson and the Weasley twins were distressing Mrs Weasley with their openly mutual affections, and Nymphadora was feeding baby Teddy, their hair a matching green, and – and – they were all so bloody irritating, and yet...he realised that this was what home felt like.