When I finally set down the quill, my hand is stiff and cramping.
I have filled a thick stack of parchment with the words of our story - with everything I can remember. Draco has helped, has contributed where he can, and together we have documented every moment and emotion.
One day, we will need them. Even if no one ever tries to take our memories again. One day when we are old, our minds will fail us.
Keeping our memories in vials is not enough for me. It's not enough to extract them and put them in a safe place; not after everything we've been through. But it's all in writing now, and that's the most I can do.
The cottage is small, but it's all that we need. Large windows overlook the sea. Knitted blankets and soft cushions swarm the window seat, where we both sit. Draco is engrossed in a book, his long legs sprawled across the bench as he reads.
I move closer to him, and wrap my arms around his middle. He puts the book down and pulls me into his side.
"This is where our story ends," I tell him. "Here at the cottage, just as we planned it."
"Belly," says Draco. His arm circles my waist, and he turns us - pulls us back so that we are looking out of the window, at the vast expanse of sea. "Belly, our story is only just beginning."
