Instead, I give her this, which I wrote a while back to cheer myself up, and tweaked a bit this morning. It's a bit different and a bit longer than it was originally. The house is a real one. The house I give to Harry and Draco. The story, also a real one, I give to Willow.
This is for you, kiddo. I hope it makes you smile. It makes me want to write, which makes me smile. *hugs*
The big old house has nine windows in front, and a green door that opens onto a short brick walkway leading out to the winding country road. There are poppies hidden in the waist-high grass, blood-red, once carefully tended by some long-ago gardener, now gone as wild as the bittersweet vines creeping up the pine trees in the side yard. An old, broken-down barn lies to the left of the house, its rough-hewn rock foundation standing strong under powdering clapboard shingles. The back garden is a tangle of windblown grasses; the spring air is honey-scented. It's a Muggle house, true, but the builders have wrought their own kind of magic there, and even the wizards say that there's a palpable air of something that reaches out like a physical presence to anyone who passes. Some say it feels a lot like love.
Harry stands in front of the house, facing out towards the winding lane where horse-carts once pulled their burdens of goods or passengers when the house was new. His face is lifted toward the afternoon sun; his eyes are closed. The not-quite-magic in the air is something Harry can physically feel, like the gentle hand of a welcoming friend. It's all around him, everywhere in this place, and he drinks it in like a tonic, grateful. He knows without a shred of doubt that he's come home. His home. Their home, finally and completely.
After all the long years, after the war and the dying and the tears and the putting back together, a place for them to grow up and grow old and live and laugh and fill with all the love in the world.
It's perfect, Harry thinks. Perfectly wild, perfectly wonderful. Magical. Home.
He can't wait to show Draco.