Archive of Our Own

If we’re not married by the time we’re 40, we have to marry each other.

Draco smooths his napkin over his leg, tilting his head at his date for the evening.

“And you’re an architect? Have you always wanted to be an architect?”

Charles shrugs amiably, pushing his own bunched napkin into his lap. He sets his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his fist.

“I suppose. I always liked buildings and such, you know? I didn’t know about the job until later, but the passion for architecture was always there.”

“Hm.” Draco says thoughtfully, lifting his glass of wine to sniff. It’s fruity, light, and surprisingly dry when he sips it. “What’s your style?”

“Deco.” Charles says decisively. “Art deco, that is. For sure. But I’ve always had a soft spot for-”

Their table candle flickers slightly with the sudden approach of someone behind Draco. Charles’ eyes are fixed on them, just over Draco’s shoulder. Twisting, Draco looks up at the figure.

“Can I help you?”

“Hey Malfoy.” Potter says, half a smile gracing his darkly stubbled jaw. It’s certainly a shock to see him here, at a restaurant with tablecloths.

“Evening, Potter.” Draco says, confusion in his tone. Potter steps forward, hand outstretched, to introduce himself to Charles. 

“Harry Potter.” He says, and Charles quickly wipes his hands off on his napkin before shaking it, despite not having touched any food yet.

“I- Charles Savignor.” He stumbles out, shaking Potter’s hand one too many times. “I didn’t realise you knew each other.” 

“We don’t.” Draco says, irritably, shifting his wine glass slightly with two fingers on its base. Potter laughs.

“Schoolmates, actually. He bullied me relentlessly .” 

Charles laughs a little too brightly for something that isn’t particularly funny, and Draco resigns himself to leaving before dessert. A waste of a good evening. Charles can pay for this one.

“Are you meeting someone here, Potter?” Draco cuts in, twisting back around to glare up at Potter. He has half a mind to summon a server over to have Potter ushered to his own table.

“I am, yes.” Potter says, seemingly perfectly happy to have spoiled Draco’s date. “Just stopped by to say hi.”

“Hello, and see you around.” Draco says, turning to the table. He startles when Potter claps him on the shoulder in farewell.

Charles watches him leave.

“Schoolmates, huh? I should be the one asking you questions.” He says excitedly. “Were you the same year?”

Draco sighs inwardly. Potter is led past them with a pretty brunet, who seems significantly less starstruck than Charles. Maybe Draco should date him, instead. 

The barrage of questions goes from exceedingly dull to excruciatingly boring.

“Skeeter’s book goes over most of this, have you read it? I’m sure you would find it very interesting.” Draco says dryly, skewering pasta in the most undignified way. 

“Is it good? I don’t usually read rag pieces.” Charles says. Draco can feel his eyebrows twitching. 

“I haven’t read it.” He says shortly. “I only know because I have mutual friends with Potter, and they mentioned that Skeeter’s information was worryingly good.”

“Oh.” Charles says, letting his gaze wander over to where Potter and his brunet are sharing a laugh over the menu. Probably trying to figure out how something is pronounced. Draco glowers at them.

Since Charles is distracted, Draco takes the opportunity to transfigure one of his own rings into a showy engagement ring. He summons a waiter.

“I would like to send my dear friends some champagne, could you arrange that for me?” Draco asks her quietly, slipping her the ring and nodding toward Potter. She bites back what’s likely an unprofessional laugh, and agrees. 

As Charles is gearing up to ask about dessert, Draco’s champagne is being delivered to the unsuspecting table. The flute with the ring goes to Potter instead of his date. 

No matter, the date is ruined either way.

Potter fishes out the ring with a knife, glancing uncertainly between it and the flushed, stammering brunet. Potter slips it onto his pinky, squinting at the brunet’s explanation. 

Then he’s shaking his head, opening and closing his mouth in confusion, trying to give the ring back, but the brunet refuses it, growing more and more embarrassed. Small casualty, since he really didn’t do anything wrong, aside from the audacity of dating Potter. Draco should send him a fruit basket.

And then, Potter’s eyes drift over to Draco, grinning maliciously at the scene. He raises his wine glass in a toast, and Potter’s eyebrows do a wonderful job expressing his disapproval.

“What the hell was that for?” Charles asks in a stage whisper. “He was just being nice, earlier!” 

“Potter is never just being nice. ” Draco snaps, setting his silverware at 3 o’clock and plopping his napkin on the tabletop. “Not with me.” 

A server appears to take Draco’s dishes just as Potter’s date is leaving the restaurant, alone. Potter is glowering at Draco, and Draco scowls right back.

“Really uncool of you to do that to your friend.” Charles mutters, copying Draco’s manners to have his own dishes cleared. 

“He’s not my friend.” Draco says, pushing his chair back and rising. “Thanks for dinner, it was delicious.” 

He leaves a gaping Charles behind to pay their bill.

“It was blatant sabotage!” Harry protests, flopping onto Pansy’s couch, facedown. 

“Shocking behaviour from our dear Draco Lucius Malfoy!” Pansy scoffs. “I could never, ever see him doing such a thing, never in my life!” 

“To be fair, Harry,” Hermione cuts in, “He was probably not very happy that you went and introduced yourself to his date.”

“So what, I went and said hi. I always say hi to him when I see him.” Harry mumbles into the couch cushion. It smells like cat. “Even the bloke he was with thought it was petty, he told me so when we were leaving the place.”

“Draco hates being reminded that you’re famous and he’s not.” Pansy says, folding herself up on the floor near Harry’s head. She combs her fingers through his curls, her long fake nails giving him pleasant gooseflesh.

“That’s not exactly my fault.” 

“No, but you don’t have to shove it in his face.” Hermione points out. She sits under Harry’s feet, pulling them back into her lap and resting her forearms across his calves. Harry pouts into the couch some more before rolling over.

“It’s really hard to find someone that doesn’t get goggle-eyed when they realise who I am. Emile was perfect.” 

“You’ve spent exactly two hours and forty-three minutes with the man. Of course he seems perfect.” Pansy says. “Just wait until the third date, when he drops the ‘ oh, by the way, I was at Hogwarts in 1998 and I saw you being a miserable coward, unable to keep your big trap shut! Let me just leak your personal information to the press, now, and dox you!’”

She ends her ramble with a high, angry laugh, then scowls at the floor. Harry gropes around the floor for her hand.

“Try dating muggles.” He suggests, but Pansy just huffs.

“ Anyway, Harry.” Hermione interrupts, tapping the top of his foot. “The only way to find out why he did this is to talk to him.”

“I try talking to him all the time! He doesn’t want to see me!” 

“Patently untrue.” Pansy declares.

“ Without being snarky and when he’s not on a date.” Hermione says firmly. “Visit him at home, or something.”

Harry looks at Pansy, who huffs.

“Yeah, I’ll give you his address. You didn’t get it from me.”

“Sure.” 

Draco’s home is the top floor of a four storey muggle house. Pansy lent him her spare key to let himself in the front door, so he heads straight for the stairs.

They’re creaky, as old houses usually are, and there are a dozen or so pictures of the housemates in awkward groupings all the way up.

Draco is featured in several, but Harry’s eyes catch on one where he’s posing cheek to cheek with a striking, grey-haired woman with big black eyes. Judging by the number of photos she’s in, Harry would venture to guess that she either owns the house, or is the one to keep things in order. 

“Pans?” 

Harry jumps, realising he’s still standing in front of the photo. He goes quickly up the last few stairs, knocking on the door.

When it opens, Draco gives a dramatic, “ You!” and tries to shut it in Harry’s face. Harry sticks his foot out to stop it, and Draco doesn’t try shutting it again.

“I brought your fucking ring back, you bastard.” Harry says. Hermione recommended Harry be diplomatic and neutral.

“Fine, let me have it.” Draco says, holding his hand out, palm up, several other mismatching rings gleaming against his skin. Harry wanders over to the armchair, making himself comfortable in it. Draco is fuming. The armchair is already warm.

Draco’s orange cat, who Harry knows through Pansy to be named Kettle Corn, drops down from a high shelf to twist between Harry’s ankles, purring. Harry gives Draco a triumphant look. 

“Mutinous cat.” Draco hisses, snatching the animal from the floor to hold against his chest. Kettle Corn squawks, but settles down easily and starts purring again. 

“So, what was that all about?” Harry asks.

“You ruined my date.” Draco says, looking down his nose at Harry in his chair. “So I returned the favour.”

“That wasn’t my first date with Emile. I liked him.” 

“How terribly unfortunate.” 

Rolling his eyes, Harry sits back in the chair. 

The little studio is bright with afternoon light, which falls directly over about half the books in the bookcase built into the wall.

“How has Kettle Corn been?” 

“He’s fine, thank you.” Draco says, scritching behind the orange ears. Kettle Corn meows, stretching his paws up and yawning. “He brought me a rat yesterday. Put it right on my chest. Horrid way to wake up.”

Harry can’t help but grin at the image.

“Yeah, that would suck.” He agrees, and catches Draco smiling at the creature in his arms.

“You’re a nuisance, aren’t you.” Draco says affectionately, wiggling one of Kettle Corn’s paws. “Dreadful ickle bastard man.” 

For a brief, bizarre moment, Harry’s breath catches. Draco is…

Forget it. 

He’s just gotten soft over the troublemaker cat with the stupid name. 

“Pansy told you about it, didn’t she.” Draco says, still looking at Kettle Corn. “About Osteria Francescana. The restaurant.”

“I certainly didn’t hear it from Ron.”

“Ronald brings his children to burger places.” Draco says thoughtfully, letting Kettle Corn down to the floor. He straightens, then lounges back against his neatly made bed, the only other sitting surface in the room. “He says it’s good for children to grow up on cheap, hearty food so they don’t end up pompous and waifish like me.”

Harry laughs, which Draco pretends he isn’t pleased by. Draco always looks so pleased when Harry laughs instead of punching him in the face.

“Like he’s one to talk.” Draco continues, watching as Kettle Corn paces contemplatively around the room. 

“He’s a beanstalk, just like his dad.” Harry agrees, thinking of Ron’s ankles sticking out of his trousers for the last twenty-five years of his life. Ron is too tall for most trousers and too thin for the extra big ones. “Where did you meet Charles? He seemed nice.”

Draco rolls his eyes.

“Very boring man, as it turns out. Easy on the eyes, but that only takes one so far.” 

“Sure.” Harry says, smiling. Draco ignores him.

“I met him in a cafe, actually. He came onto me whilst we were waiting for drinks. You know that new place in Fernwick’s Ferry? Between the wand shop and the organic pickle place?”

“Oh, Brewed by Love, yeah. Hermione and I went last week before work.” 

“Hermione mentioned it to me, she said they had good coffees.” Draco says, watching Harry situate himself in the armchair more comfortably. He starts twisting those rings in circles around his fingers. “Anyway, I’d gotten a very masculine triple caramel soy latte-”

“Sounds foul.”

“-and Charles accidentally grabbed my drink. Our names were called at the same time.” Draco continues. “And obviously, I couldn’t let someone else walk away with my thirteen sickle coffee, so I told him to surrender it back to me. But not before he’d taken a rather large sip, which was unfortunate. So he bought me a fresh one to replace it, and we got to talking whilst we were waiting for it.”

“Very cute. I can see why you would want to take him to the most expensive Italian food this side of the Thames.” 

“If I’d known he was such a fan of yours, I obviously wouldn’t have entertained him.” Draco says with a sneer. Harry grins back, thinking of Charles’ awestruck face. He’d caught Charles staring at him and Emile all throughout dinner, which normally would be very irritating, but because the man was Draco’s date, Harry found he didn’t mind it too much. 

“And your little tart?” Draco interrupts Harry’s thoughts. Harry frowns.

“He’s a perfectly nice man.”

“He’s about half your age.”

“I’m younger than you.”

“It wasn’t me on a date with a twenty year old, was it.” 

Harry huffs, lifting his ankle to rest on his knee. 

“He’s almost thirty, and he’s well established in his life. He has a good job and a lot of energy.”

“ Oh, he has energy.” Draco simpers, draping himself suggestively over his bed. “Well, pardon me, I didn’t know that’s what you were looking for in a partner.”

“Sod off, you prat.” Harry says, rolling his eyes at Draco’s smug face. 

Harry stands, wandering over to Draco’s bookshelves, skimming over the titles. He can feel Draco’s eyes on him. Is energy something Harry’s looking for in a partner these days? Emile certainly had it, but is that what’s important to Harry?

“I keep the erotica on the bottom shelf.” 

Harry snorts, but otherwise doesn’t respond. 

“Well organised.” He notes, following the alphabetical progression of author surnames. He glances back at Draco. “Did you do this yourself?”

“You think I would pay someone to sort my books? You do think I’m a ponce.” Draco says mildly, sitting up on his elbows. Harry smiles into the shelves.

“I didn’t realise you collect muggle classics.” Harry says, pulling out a thick, leather-bound copy of Rudyard Kipling’s works. The gold lettering on the binding gleams in the light from the tall window.

“That was a gift for my mother.” 

“Usually, when you give someone a gift, you’re supposed to leave it with them.” Harry says, flipping the cover open. Sure enough, there’s a lengthy note written in Draco’s swooping, illegible cursive. It’s signed ‘ Forever your son, Draco.’ Harry frowns, closing the book and setting it back on the shelf. It feels like something he wasn’t meant to read.

“Usually, when picking out a gift for someone, one should find an item suitable for the audience.” Draco says, rising gracefully from the bed to stand beside Harry. “You can have it. I have another copy.”

Harry hesitates, but he takes it from Draco’s shelf again. Draco brushes his hair back, watching Harry.

“How is she? I haven’t seen her since Pansy’s birthday brunch.”

Draco huffs, turning his attention to the thin gap left by the missing book. He shifts everything to the left, adjusting the bookend.

“Bigoted, but otherwise fine.”

Harry makes a face, tapping his fingers along the spine of the book. 

“Sorry.”

“I believe you were here to return my ring?” Draco asks, tilting his chin up at Harry. Harry rolls his eyes, but fishes the offending thing from his pocket and drops it into Draco’s outstretched hand. It clinks against the others on Draco’s fingers.

“Next time, you’re not getting it back.” Harry tells him, bids farewell to Kettle Corn, and leaves the attic flat.

Draco floos directly to Pansy, inhaling right as he steps out and coughing up ash. She looks up from her ledgers, alarmed. 

“Potter is being horrid again.” Draco announces, wheezingly. “And I know you gave him my address, you cow.”

“He was home.” Harry reports, picking his way over the floor covered in Hermione’s notecards.

“Oh? It went well? You were gone for a while.” She says without glancing up.

Harry sighs huffily, dropping Draco’s Kipling book onto the sofa.

“I did no such thing.” Pansy lies, setting her quill down. “What did he do this time?”

With another very graceful and dignified series of coughs, Draco takes the seat across from Pansy’s desk.

“He showed up at my home, poked around, knew my cat’s name, and then left.”

“The cunt.” Pansy says, lacking any conviction. Draco scowls at her. She rolls her eyes.

“What did I do to you to warrant siccing Potter on me? Was my dreadfully disappointing date not enough for one weekend?”

“He seemed to be completely neutral about seeing me.” Harry tells her. “Well, he was fucking pissed at first, but I think that was mainly for show. He thinks I ruined his date on purpose.”

“Didn’t you?” Hermione asks, tilting her head.

“Not- Okay, I didn’t ruin it on purpose, I just wanted to…”

“I didn’t sic Potter on you, dear.” Pansy sighs. “Hermione and I thought it would be best if the two of you saw each other in a non-confrontational and neutral space.”

“My home is not a neutral space!” 

“Well, neither of you was on a date with someone else, so it’s close enough.” Pansy says, standing to walk around her desk to join Draco’s side of it. She leans against it, propping one slipper-clad foot against the front of Draco’s chair. 

“This is because my birthday is soon, isn’t it.” Draco says. “And you told Hermione about our…”

“...spoil it a little.”

“You sort of ruined it on purpose.” Hermione says, though not unkindly. “And I’m sure I know why.”

“Romantic little vow?” Pansy asks, bitchily. Draco narrows his eyes at her. 

“It wasn’t remotely romantic, I assure you.”

“You promised to marry each other at age 40, assuming neither of you were attached to anyone else.”

“He doesn’t even remember that, Pans.” Draco snaps. “He hasn’t mentioned it since.”

“It has nothing to do with that.” Harry says quickly. “I’m not even forty yet.”

“So you weren’t making sure that he stays single at least until his birthday?”

“How terribly upsetting.” Pansy tells him, her toes worming their way beneath Draco’s thigh, seeking warmth. He can feel the cold through her slippers and his own trousers. 

“Buy some decent socks.” He tells her, but shifts aside anyway so she can get her whole foot sandwiched between him and the chair. 

“Oh, but then how will anyone see my precious little feet?” 

Draco stares pensively at the corner of her desk for a moment. 

“It’s not like I’m staying single.” 

“You’re not in a relationship. You haven’t had a real relationship since the agreement. That night at Blaise’s party when you and Draco disappeared to-”

“We just talked!” Harry protests, though he knows not a single one of their friends believes that Harry and Draco had lied side-by-side on a picnic blanket beneath the stars and talked to each other for hours, without having sex, or even so much as kissing. As much as Harry may have thought they would.

Not that he’d particularly wanted to, or anything, it just seemed like the thing to do.

But it didn’t happen that night, nor has it happened at any point afterwards.

“Alright.” Hermione says with a grin.

“If he did remember it, I’m certain he would make some effort to get out of it.” Draco says slowly. “Be in a relationship, propose to someone else, leave the country…”

“Show up at your home with a ring?” Pansy asks cheekily.

“It was my ring!”

Pansy tips her head back to laugh at him.

“The point is-”

“The point is that you spoiled Draco’s evening out because you want so very badly to be the one out with him.” Hermione says, batting her eyelashes at him, voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “Because you’re in lo- ”

“Am not!”

“Darling, you’re just as capable of inviting him out to dinner as he is.”

“Absolutely not. I refuse.” Draco says firmly. He’s not going to be the first to break their unspoken agreement to pretend that night never happened.

“Well then, you can’t complain when your thirties pass you by without any resolution to your, frankly embarrassing, infatuation with our dear friend Potter.”

“He’s not my friend!”

“It’s nothing shameful! He’s a lovely man, and very good-looking, too. Anyone can see why you would be attracted to him.”

“His appearance has nothing to do with anything.” Harry says, finally sagging into Hermione’s sofa. She quiets, leaning back on her hands to look up at him.

“Then what is it?”

“Really, no objection to the infatuation part?”

Before Draco can retroactively object, Pansy continues on. 

“Yes, he absolutely is your friend, you absolute pillock. And I know this because I’ve seen the two of you bunkered into corners together when you think everyone is plastered.”

“We don’t bunker into corners together, we happen to seek refuge from our loony friends in the same spaces, is all. It’s not my fault we favour the same hiding places.”

“At any rate, if you expect to have any sort of future with the man, you’ll have to put yourself out there sooner or later. No more of this dating around with the fittest lads you can get your hands on.”

“It’s- it’s nothing.” Harry sighs, looking at his hands. 

“It’s not nothing, Harry.”

“Might as well be. It’s certainly one-sided.” Harry reminds her. “It wasn’t me that got into a relationship the week after he and I…”

“That’s a very unfair take on my romantic life.” Draco says petulantly. Pansy smiles in that odd, almost motherly way she’s taken on lately. Draco hates to admit that it’s sweet on her face.

“I never said it was a bad thing. Only that it won’t get you anywhere with Potter. Or anywhere with anyone else, for that matter. It’s high time you open up.” 

“Harry. Love, you need to talk to him. Find a nice spot for a picnic in the grass and look at the sky together again, if that helps.”

Sighing, Draco smooths a wrinkle in the cuff of Pansy’s trouser leg. 

“I don’t know how to do that.” 

Pansy purses her lips.

“Neither do I.”

Draco does nothing to initiate it, but neither does he discourage sexy Kirk from his advances.

“It really is a curse, being this fair.” Draco says dramatically, holding up one hand to show his point. “I really can’t stay out in the sun even for the length of one gondola trip.”

“What if you had a parasol?” Kirk asks, pressing his palm to Draco’s. His fingers are thicker, but not longer than Draco’s. He tilts his head.

“Am I a Victorian maiden?” Draco laughs. Kirk smiles, ducking his head.

“No, no, I-”

“Malfoy, we got this for you downstairs.” The freckly boy from reception hoists a nauseatingly enormous vase of tropical flowers onto Draco’s desk. They would have been stunning had Draco been in a better mood to receive them.

“What the fuck?” Draco asks, standing to see the blooms better. 

Kirk clears his throat, standing up straight from where he’d been leaning against Draco’s desk. 

“Was there a note?” Draco asks the boy, glancing apologetically at Kirk, who suddenly won’t meet his eye.

“Yeah, it’s stuck in the fork on top,” the downstairs-boy says, then takes his leave. Draco plucks the plastic trident from the bouquet.

“I truly have no idea what this is about.” Draco says, flicking the tiny envelope open.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were seeing someone.” Kirk says. 

“Oh no, I’m not-”

“Draco.” 

Draco looks up at Kirk’s grimace.

“People who aren’t seeing each other don’t send this type of thing. I hope he treats you well. Honestly. I’ll see you around.”

Unable to find words, Draco watches Kirk head back to his own cubicle. After he’s gone, Draco remembers the note in his hand and opens it.

You know who. Sorry for being a wanker. xxx

Fucking Potter. Was it not enough to send Charles running, now Draco is completely unable to flirt with anyone at work? Not even sexy Kirk from… Draco sits up straight to see what department Kirk is heading for. Marketing? 

“It really has been ages.” Harry laughs, releasing her from the hug and sitting on the park bench. “You look well.”

“I should hope so.” Cho laughs, shaking her fringe from her eyes. “After four months in Spain, I think it’s a requirement.”

“How was it?”

“Invigorating.” She sighs, looking wistful. She sits sideways, facing Harry with her knees held up against her torso. “I swam every day in the Mediterranean. It’s very good for the soul.”

“I’m really happy for you.” Harry says genuinely. “And Marisol?”

Cho blushes, adjusting the ring on her finger.

“She’s lovely, Harry. She’s so lovely.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Humming in the contented way that only people who are truly in love can do, Cho tips her face back to the sun, eyes shut and smile wide.

“And you? How are you and Draco?”

Harry barks out a laugh.

“Sorry?”

Cho’s head jerks up, and she looks suddenly alarmed.

“Are- are you not together anymore? I heard from Millicent that you had…”

“Malfoy and I have never been together.” Harry corrects her. “Millie told you what?”

“Just- just that you were really sweet together.” Cho says, frowning. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“What does- did she say anything else? When was this?”

“Oh, ages ago, I’d assumed- you know, since I hadn’t heard that you’d broken up or anything-”

“But we never started dating.” Harry says slowly. “We haven’t even, like… kissed. Or anything. We’re barely friends.”

“That’s not what I heard at all.” Cho says quietly, clearly baffled. “You’re certain? The way Millie described it, it’s like…”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you, now.” Cho says. “Is- is that him?”

Harry’s head whips around to see where Cho is looking, and sure enough, Draco is striding purposefully toward them, his brow a V with how hard he’s frowning.

“Motherfucker.” Harry says under his breath. “What the hell is he doing here?”

As Draco gets closer, Harry spots a vibrant bird of paradise bloom clutched in one fist. Fuck.

“Draco, hi!” Cho says, waving. Draco only stops when he’s within three feet of her and Harry, looking down at them imperiously. His cheeks and the bridge of his nose are already flushing red under the hot June sun.

“What the bleeding hell were you doing, sending me a fucking jungle of plants to my desk at work?” Draco demands. “I told you, the entire affair was meant to remain private!”

“Sorry, the what?” Harry chokes out. Draco’s eyes flash, and Harry’s not sure if it’s dread or excitement that races through his chest. He hasn’t seen that look in Draco’s eyes in years.

“And here you are, sending me a note with kisses at work?” Draco barrels on, waving Harry’s completely anonymous, completely harmless note. 

“Oh come on-” Harry starts, but Draco cuts him off.

“Don’t bother coming over tonight. I need time to cool off.” Draco says, thrusting the orange flower into Harry’s chest. Harry catches it instinctively. “Hopefully, the press isn’t onto us yet.”

Harry can only stare as Draco turns on his heel, but not before Harry catches sight of his wicked, shit-eating grin.

Cho coughs.

“Er-” 

“Sorry, you were telling me how very not involved you are with Draco?” She says slyly, nodding at Draco’s back.

It takes a moment for the conversation to process.

“I’m not.” Harry says again. “It’s-”

At Cho’s disbelieving expression, Harry huffs.

“I sent him a little thing of flowers. As an apology for spoiling his date the other day.” Harry explains. “The rest… well, I think he might have thought I was… on a date… with you.”

“He thought we were-”

“I don’t know!” Harry says, pushing his hands through his hair. It’s too hot for this. He looks at the flower still in his hand. “I think this is just what we’re doing, now. Messing around, or something.”

“Always the games with you two.” Cho sighs. “Aren’t you going to go after him?”

With a breathy laugh, Harry shakes his head.

“I’ll see him with a new bloke eventually. I’ll talk to him then.”

Cho rolls her eyes.

“You’re both so fucking stupid.”

Harry sighs.

“Yeah…”

Draco knows it won’t last forever. Potter will find a way to get back at him for spoiling his chances with Cho. 

And Draco does owe her an apology for the scene. But not before Potter moves on to someone else.

It takes some time - well, an afternoon and an ‘accidental’ run-in at the coffee machine - but sexy Kirk is willing to look past the small forest of flowers on Draco’s desk and ask him out for drinks.

“There’s a spot in London. My friend recommended it, but I haven’t had the opportunity to take a look.” Draco tells Kirk, gathering his things to leave. Kirk smiles brightly.

“We’ll have to turn it into an adventure together.”

Draco Apparates them to the alleyway behind the place. Neville had said it’s muggle-friendly, and some wander in off the streets on occasion, so one must be careful.

Kirk orders an old fashioned for himself, and Draco gets a mojito. They tap their glasses together before sipping.

“Verdict?” Kirk asks, licking his lips. Draco hums, letting the flavours settle on his tongue. 

“I like it.” He decides. “It’s rather playful, I think.” 

“Smashing.” Kirk grins. 

They drink, talk loudly over the noise about nothing in particular, and it’s pleasant. 

Kirk gets a beer when he finishes his first drink, and Draco gets a soda water. He clicks his rings against the glass absently.

“I’m a lightweight.” He admits to Kirk, who laughs. Really, Draco knows if he’s sloshed, he won’t be able to remember the night. And he very much wants to remember his night with sexy Kirk.

It’s an altogether alright evening. Kirk isn’t so very bold as Charles had been, but Draco makes sure that he’s not as in awe of Potter either. 

“If I met the man, I suppose I’d probably thank him, but he’s living a rather ordinary life these days, isn’t he.” Kirk shrugs. “I wouldn’t fall at his feet, certainly.”

“Good gods, the number of times I’ve seen people do that.” Draco groans, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Is it loud in here, or is it just me?”

So they leave the bar, walking arm in arm through the evening mist. Kirk listens quietly as Draco tells him about the construction of the pedestrian bridge the cross, and Kirk mentions rather late into this whole thing that he has two children. Off-handedly, like it’s not that big of a thing, not remotely shocking.

“And their mother?” Draco asks, pulling his arm away slowly. Kirk lets him go.

“Lives in Cambridge.” Kirk says. “I’m sure the girls would love to meet you. If that’s something you’d be alright with. Eventually, you know. I only get them on weekends, anyway.”

Draco turns to look out over the bridge at the black water running below, pulling his signet ring on and off his finger.

“I’m really not looking for…” Draco begins, ducking his head as Kirk joins him at the side.

“What are you looking for?” Kirk asks softly. Draco sighs.

“Fun?” He says, his voice going weak. Kirk wasn’t meant to be a family man. Draco doesn’t pick family men. He picks people looking for the same thing he is.

“Fun.” Kirk repeats a bit dully. “I had fun. Tonight.”

With a watery laugh, Draco turns again from Kirk. He feels horribly shallow. 

“Not that kind of fun.” He admits under his breath. Admittedly, flirting with someone from work is usually not the best move, but it helps liven up the day, and keeps things interesting. But it was never meant to go beyond a fling, never meant to involve meeting families.

Hell, Draco doesn’t even know Kirk’s surname.

“I didn’t know you were looking for something…”

“Serious?”

“Well, it’s not like I knew you had a family!”

“You didn’t?” Kirk scoffs. “I have photos with them all over my desk. Hell, I thought everyone at the office knows I have kids. I hardly stop talking about them.”

“I-” Draco turns to face Kirk again. Work is going to be so unbearable. “I suppose I never paid that much attention.”

“Draco.” Kirk says softly, reaching up to touch Draco’s jaw. Draco can’t meet his eyes.

“I’m really sorry.” 

“Oh come on, Draco, I’m not asking you to marry me.” Kirk says, taking a step back. He laughs once, shaking his head. “You don’t even want to give it a shot?”

“I’m just…” Draco trails off, closing his eyes. “That’s not what I’m looking for. You’re not what I’m looking for.”

It’s silent for a beat too long, and Draco half hopes that Kirk had just walked away. This is horrible.

“I wish I’d known that a long time ago.” Kirk says. And Draco grimaces.

“I’m sorry.”

A rowdy group of partiers approach the bridge from the other side, and Draco freezes. He knows that group of laughs anywhere.

Blaise’s loud story cuts short as he notices the bridge is occupied, then spots Draco.

“Mate!” He shouts, grabbing Draco by the arm to haul him into a hug. He smells like beer already.

“Draco!” Neville says, throwing one arm around Kirk’s shoulders. “Who’s your friend?”

The rest of the group clusters to greet them, and last of all, Potter shoulders his way forward, and Draco doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do now.

“Join us, darling!” Potter says, jovial as all hell, but faltering at the end. He tilts his head, glancing back at Kirk. 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly-” Draco protests, although he would love to not have to spend one more excruciating second with Kirk. Monday will be hell.

“Won’t take a no.” Potter says, smiling crookedly, holding out a hand, which Draco hesitantly takes. “You’re welcome too, of course. What’s your name?”

“Doesn’t fucking matter.” Kirk says, giving one tight smile to the group, waving, and walking away.

“Shit, man. Did we fuck that up?” Neville asks Draco, but Draco lets out a breath, shaking his head.

“Nope. That one’s on me.”

Potter is still holding Draco’s hand, for some reason, and he squeezes as the group starts migrating toward the bar Draco and Kirk had been in earlier. Potter’s thumb traces the band sitting at the base of Draco’s index, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

“What happened?” Potter asks quietly, ambling along slower than everyone else so that they’re at the back of the group.

“I-” Draco sighs, tucking his arm close to Potter’s. For warmth. “I usually don’t fuck around with family men. And I just wasn’t paying attention, with him.”

“Sucks.” Potter says, bumping Draco’s hip as they walk. “Want to get absolutely fucking plastered?”

“You sound like you’re halfway there already.” Draco says dryly.

“You have some catching up to do. Won’t take you long.” Potter teases, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“One shot of vodka and I’ll be dancing on the tables.”

“Two shots and you’ll be snoring in the loos.” Potter laughs, and Draco can’t help but join.

As predicted, Monday is terrible in every way.

By the time Draco reaches his desk, just about everyone he’s seen has given him a cold, mistrustful look. Even Pattie from Credit and Receivables. That one in particular had stung.

Good gods, sexy Kirk from Marketing was a rotten idea. Draco really fucked it up this time.

Just get through the day, Draco tells himself. It’ll pass in a month or two… probably. 

He keeps his head down, doesn’t chat in the breakroom - not that he’s given the opportunity - and makes it to lunch without being hexed. He brings a folder of work with him down to the canteen, just to feel less awkward about sitting alone.

Unfortunately, this is where Kirk finds him. He sits across the table from Draco, setting a brown-paper-wrapped sandwich between them.

“Kirk.” Draco says, which comes out with a squeak. He clears his throat. Kirk smiles stiffly, folding his arms on the tabletop.

“Hi Draco.”

With one finger, Kirk pushes the sandwich forward.

“I rather think it should be me offering you a peace offering.” Draco says, shutting his folder and sliding it to the side. “I really am sorry.”

“As am I.” Kirk says, leaning in. “I know everyone’s mad at you today.”

“Didn’t peg you for a kiss-and-tell type.” 

“I’m not.” Kirk assures him, looking off at their coworkers clustered around a nearby table, clearly trying to listen in. “I just- I may have been a little bit peeved with you still when Margaret asked me how our date was. And of course…”

“Margaret loves to share.” Draco finishes for him. “Yeah. Well, it’s nothing I don’t deserve.”

Kirk shakes his head.

“I was thinking about it all weekend, and I feel really stupid. You never said or did anything to give the impression that you were looking for a relationship.”

“Well, I did flirt with you for quite a long time for someone with no serious intentions.” 

“You never even came to my desk.” Kirk points out. “I always came to you. I just liked you so much, Draco.”

“I hardly know you.” Draco admits, eyes falling to Kirk’s hands. “I may just be a bit of… a bit of an attention whore.”

With a quiet laugh, Kirk reaches out to turn Draco’s hand over, brushing his fingers over Draco’s palm. 

“It’s okay. I’m hoping they’ll all lay off you after this.” 

“Thanks.” Draco tells him. He takes Kirk’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I did enjoy spending time with you. You’re a lovely man.”

“Watch it, Draco, or I’ll think you’re coming onto me.” Kirk teases, taking his hand back after one final squeeze. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah, bye. I hope your family is well.”

Kirk leaves the table, leaving his sandwich.

“You’re doing that wrong.”

Draco drops his spatula at the voice. 

“Who let you in?” 

“Er…” Potter is beside Draco now, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. “She said her name was Samantha?”

Huffing, Draco turns to look at Potter. 

“I don’t live with anyone named Samantha. What are you doing here?”

“Currently?” Potter asks, leaning his hip against the countertop. “Telling you how to peel broccoli, apparently.”

Draco gives Potter a look. Potter shifts to the sink to wash his hands, inviting himself to use the soap.

“You should take those off whilst you cook.” Potter says, nodding at Draco’s hands. Draco glances over his usual rings of various mismatched metals. They’ll be fine.

“You don’t peel broccoli. It’s already peeled. It grows peeled.” Draco says instead of answering.

Potter huffs a laugh under his breath, damp hands brushing Draco’s away from the florets on the cutting board. Draco backs off easily, more than alright with Potter finishing the chopping for him. Potter peels off the outside of the stalk, then dices what’s left into thick rounds.

“See, if you don’t peel it, you’re going to have a tough stalk. It’s chewy. Better when it’s peeled.”

“Do you have to peel carrots, too?” Draco asks innocently. Potter rolls his eyes, setting down the knife and stepping away. 

“What are you making?”

“Broccoli and carrots.”

With another majestic roll of his mighty head, Potter relinquishes control of the kitchen tools back into Draco’s hands.

“That’s all you’re eating for dinner?”

“Oh, no. The girls have a roast in the oven, and the pasta’s in that pot over there.”

Potter invites himself over to the kitchen table to pass judgement over the pasta. He apparently deems it worthy, and puts the lid back on. 

“Nice spread.” Potter says, looking around the rest of the kitchen. “My muggle cousin tells me broccoli has anti-aging properties. He turns 40 in a couple of weeks.”

“Because 40 is so ancient.” Draco says with a scoff. Potter hums.

“It is to muggles. They don’t live as long as wizards.”

“Muggles live to what, ninety these days? One hundred, sometimes?” Draco asks. “Forty isn’t even half of that. What are they so worried about?”

“It’s not like we have potions to stop wrinkles or greying hair.” Potter says, and Draco notes the curl twisted around his finger, the grey hairs sprinkled throughout Potter’s scalp. 

“Hair dye.” Draco says, frowning. “You alright?”

Huffing, Potter starts pulling absently at the nearest drawer, opening it barely an inch, then letting it roll closed again. Open, closed. Open, closed. 

“I really didn’t think I’d have to worry about wrinkles. When I was a kid, I mean. Didn't seem likely I'd last that long.” 

“You really don’t have to worry about wrinkles, Potter. Wrinkles are lovely. A sign of wisdom, maturity, and will to survive.” Draco pushes Potter’s glasses up into his hair to observe his face unobstructed, and Potter’s bottle green eyes find his easily. “The fact that you're getting wrinkles means that you're stronger than everything that's tried to kill you in your life.”

Face scrunching, Potter glances away.

“Easy for you to say. You’ve looked the same since you hit 25. You haven’t aged a day past 20.”

“It’s going to catch up with me very fast, trust me.” Draco says, smiling. “If you’d seen my father lately, you’d know there’s not much hope for me ageing gracefully. And the salt and pepper look really works for you.”

Potter runs his hand through his hair again, huffing a light laugh. Draco shrugs.

“Look, if your cousin is that worried about it, you can lend him one of my cookbooks. It has loads of good recipes for keeping energy up and maintaining joint health. My mum sent it to me when I turned 30, likely hoping I wouldn’t age like my father.”

“Subtle of her.” Potter says under his breath. “She really is just… like that, isn’t she.” 

“What are you here for, Harry? Here to return more of my property?”

With a dry laugh, Potter shakes his head.

“Close.” He says, pulling an envelope from his back pocket. He holds it out to Draco. The paper is warm from his arse. “Happy birthday.”

Draco frowns, looking at the tidy Malfoy written on the front. 

“My birthday is tomorrow.”

Potter shrugs, leaning back against the counter, hands on the edge. Draco slides his finger beneath the lip, ripping apart the seal. Potter’s biting his lip.

A bright cellophane slip falls from the envelope before Draco can catch it. Draco squats to pick it up, then freezes.

“How-”

“Helps that my ex is on one of the teams in the quarter-finals.” Potter says casually, as if he hadn’t gifted Draco three fucking box seat tickets to the sodding World Cup. 

“Who did you have to suck off to get these?” Draco chokes out, still staring at the shiny team logos.

Potter just laughs, scratching at the back of his head. 

“I know you haven’t been able to go since we were kids, so I thought you’d enjoy going with Pansy and Goyle.”

Draco is still gaping. Potter is shuffling his feet, hands in his pockets again. 

“You’re not going?”

“I haven’t decided.” Potter shrugs. “Might be able to secure a few more if Gin helps me out. Oh, don’t tell Ron I gave those to you, or he’d have my head. He’s not over Viktor’s players losing last year.”

An odd, breathy wheeze leaves Draco’s mouth as he tries to make some acknowledgement.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go pack.” Potter says, lifting off the counter and heading for the door.

“Pott- where are you going?”

“My portkey leaves tonight. I got sent on that eastern European werewolf fighting ring the ICW is investigating. I thought Pansy would’ve mentioned it.”

Fuck Potter’s stupid job.

“Have a good trip.” Draco says, brushing his thumb over the shiny cellophane, trying to decipher what it means.

“Happy 40th.” Harry grins, and then he’s gone.

Harry arrives back in England a fortnight after he left it.

After unpacking his bag, sleeping for thirteen hours, and eating more than enough gyros to feed a small army, Harry visits Pansy once again.

“I hear I’m to be going to some Quidditch game.” Pansy says, her drawling tone no mask for the excitement in her eyes. 

“I need to buy him a ring.” Harry blurts out. “Today.”

A huffy laugh falls from Pansy’s mouth, and she shakes her head. 

“You haven’t even talked to him about it, have you. You’re just going to propose to him out of nowhere?”

“I’m not-” Harry slouches into the sofa. “I’m not going to propose out of nowhere. I just- I want to be prepared. Just in case.”

“Just in case he snogs you in the next month?” 

“Just in case he mentions it, and the perfect moment comes up.” Harry tells her, scowling deeper when she just laughs at him more.

“You’re such buffoons, Potter. It’s unbelievable, you two really do deserve each other.”

“If I knew you were going to be so difficult, I would have gone to Hermione.” 

“You know I have the best insight into what sort of ring Draco would, and more importantly, wouldn’t accept.” Pansy points out, shifting to face him on the sofa. “Besides that, I’m far more fun to shop with.”

Reluctantly, Harry agrees with both statements, and Pansy grows even more smug.

“Don’t say anything to him.” Harry makes her promise, standing and offering his arm to side-along.

“Obviously.” Pansy tuts, wrapping her hand around his bicep. “I can keep a secret.”

Pansy might be able to, but Harry absolutely cannot contain the news, and he floos over to see Ron and Hermione that evening, ring box in hand.

“You’re proposing?” Hermione asks blankly, head cocked and expression wary. “Did you finally talk to him about it?”

“No, and no.” Harry says, glancing between her baffled expression and Ron’s barely contained mirth. “It’s just- it’s just in case. In case he expects me to.”

“Yeah, what bloke doesn’t want a proposal like that.” Ron snickers, and Hermione gives him a light shove. 

“Harry, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Pansy thought it would be fine!” Harry protests, snapping the ring box shut. “She helped me pick it out and everything!”

“Pansy would agree to pretty much anything for a laugh.” 

“ Fuck!” 

Harry pockets the ring box, getting up to pace. 

“Harry, you’re fretting over a relationship that doesn’t exist . You’re creating a problem in your head that doesn’t exist.” Hermione says, watching him cross back and forth across the room. “So just… take a step back, acknowledge that the two of you have a lot of communication to do, and start with one, reasonable, normal little date.”

“Come on, ‘Mione, Harry and Draco don’t do anything in a normal or reasonable way.”

“Not helpful, Ron.”

“But what if my birthday comes and goes, and I see Malfoy, and he says, ‘Hey Potter, I took you for an honest man, where’s my ring?’ And I have no ring!”

Harry’s impression of Draco leaves much to be desired, but Ron is laughing loudly, and even Hermione is hiding a smile now.

“So, see, I have to have a back-up ring!”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione says.

Cho and Neville turn up together, unintentionally, at the Burrow. 

“Hi!” Hermione exclaims, letting them inside. “We’re just making these little pies.”

“Anyone here yet?” Neville asks, spitting out a mouthful of Hermione’s hair when she hugs him, her floury hands hovering over his shoulders.

“Just Weasleys and me.” Hermione says, gesturing for them to follow.

The kitchen is covered in food in various stages of preparedness. 

Candied fruit, chocolate-covered nuts and yoghurt-dipped pretzels are arranged into numerous containers, staged on a magically floating tray to keep them out of the way. 

A giant vat of a golden-orange beverage is churning beside the refrigerator. 

Every bit of counter space is covered with pie crust dough and bowls of filling. Molly is setting each little pie onto a baking tray and staging them to go into the oven.

“Goodness,” Cho laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much food in one kitchen.”

“Harry’s birthdays are always a bit of a production, especially the milestones.” Ron explains, stirring a pot of sugarey blueberries on the stove for more pie filling. Neville peers into it, inhaling the heavenly scent of hot fruit.

“Is Draco coming?” Cho asks, rolling up her sleeves to work on pressing pie crusts with Hermione.

“I assume so, yeah.” Hermione says, briefly distracted by Molly taking a tray of pies out of the oven. “Those smell wonderful, Molly.”

“Oh you’re too kind, dear.” Molly beams, setting the hot tray with the others on the kitchen table to cool. “I invited Draco, but he told me he may not make it.”

“I think he’s still pissed off that Harry couldn’t go to his.” Ron says. “He kept complaining all night that the werewolves couldn’t take the weekend off, or something.”

“Have you seen Draco since you got back?” Neville asks her. “He cut his hair short again.”

“I have, actually.” Cho says lightly, recounting her experience with Draco and Harry and the affair Draco alluded to.

“That is really a joke.” Hermione confirms, rolling her eyes. “They have this stupid thing going that anytime they see each other in public with a potential date, they have to butt in and ruin everything.”

“I don’t know if they think it’s funny or if they’re both jealous.” Ron admits. “But the whole thing is a nightmare that can only end badly.”

“Harry told me he’s prepared to propose to Draco tonight.” Neville says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Molly huffs, shaking her head.

“You young people and your disregard for proper wizarding courtships…” She mutters to herself.

“Harry has no regard for any traditions.” Ron points out. “That’s not really a generational thing, that’s a Harry thing.” 

“None of you are surprised that Harry is planning on marrying Draco?” Cho asks. “They won’t even admit to liking each other, let alone wanting to be together.”

“Harry already told us his plan.” Hermione says, and Ron nods.

“He showed me the ring, asked me for my opinion on it.” Molly adds.

Cho laughs, shutting her eyes.

“This is an incredibly stupid situation they’ve found themselves in.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Cho.” Ron sighs.

“So everyone knows that Harry’s going to propose tonight, except Draco?” Neville asks.

“Harry might not propose.” Hermione points out. “He said it’s ‘just in case.’”

“We all know he will. Draco will provoke him, and Harry will pop it out just like he’s been dying to do ever since they made the agreement in the first place.”

“And Draco will say yes.”

“Draco has grown out of a lot of things, but not his attraction to Harry.” Molly says sagely. “Anyone can see it.”

“Anyone but Harry.” Ron snickers.

Draco, of course, arrives fashionably late.

It wouldn’t do to seem too excited for this particular birthday. Not when he has no logical reason to be.

Potter doesn’t remember what he promised.

His entrance isn’t grand or dramatic. He slips past the crowd dancing under the fairy lights in the yard, eyes searching for messy black hair amongst a sea of reds and browns.

Draco’s sleeves flutter and catch on the air as he passes through the party. He gets a few waves, some greetings, but he’s looking for one… particular…

Potter is inside, picking at the refreshments table. Draco rests his shoulder on the door jamb, waiting for Potter to feel eyes on his back. Draco’s fingers pass idly over his bare knuckles.

This is so utterly humiliating. Draco clears his throat.

“Well.” 

Harry’s eyes jump up to meet Draco’s. 

“This is some party.” Draco says, leant casually against the door frame. 

“I hear 40’s a milestone.” Harry says, setting down his dish of finger foods. 

“Particularly when one lives a life like yours.” 

Harry tops off his champagne and grabs a second flute off the table. 

“What are you doing here?”

Accepting the flute, Draco hums lightly before sipping. He lifts his glass to watch the bubbles rise to the surface and pop. He looks at Harry.

“I assume my invitational owl got lost on its way.” 

A surprised laugh falls from Harry’s mouth, and he joins Draco leaning back against the wall. 

“Now why would you want an invitation to my birthday party? I hear we’re not even friends.”

Draco scoffs, lifting off the wall to walk his fingers along the edge of the table, examining the available foods. His hands are extraordinarily… bare. 

“How does it feel? Being a day closer to death?” Draco asks, glancing back at Harry. Harry huffs.

“You tell me.”

Smiling, Draco selects a chocolate-dipped strawberry from a display, licking a droplet of moisture off its surface before biting into it. The juice stains his lips. His tongue peeks out to lick them. Harry is definitely staring at Draco’s mouth. Look away from his mouth, Harry.

“I’m going to dance.” Draco says, his eyebrows bouncing at Harry once. “Enjoy the bubbly.”

Harry drains his champagne in one, the weight of the ring box in his pocket suddenly very heavy.

Potter hadn’t dropped to one knee at first sight. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Draco tells himself.

What to do when one hasn’t been proposed to yet, but very well could be before the end of the night?

Draco finds his way to the dance floor, joining in an energetic romp between Pansy and Ginny.

“Hermione!” 

At the third hiss, Hermione finally turns to see Harry hiding behind a fern.

“Harry, why are you hiding? This is your party.” 

Without speaking, Harry nods at Draco, clearly having a wonderful time sandwiched between the girls. Draco bends to hear something Pansy is saying, then tips his head back to laugh.

He’s so impossibly beautiful, glowing brightly in the golden lights flooding the dance floor, a rosy flush from the exertion colouring his cheeks.

Harry sighs.

“You knew he was going to come, right?” Hermione asks slowly, pushing her glass of water into Harry’s hands. Harry takes it without looking.

“But…” Harry trails off with a whimper. Hermione laughs at him. Cruelly.

“You’re such an idiot.” Pansy tells Draco, affection thick in her voice. “Did you kiss him at least?”

“Pansy!” Draco protests, feeling himself flush. “I just said hello. It’s his birthday, that’s what’s important.”

“Mhm.” Pansy says, smirking. “What about a nice little birthday kiss?”

“Birthday blowie?” Ginny suggests, wiggling her eyebrows as Draco makes a horrible noise in protest.

“Stop listening in on a private conversation!” 

“You have your ring, right?” Ron asks Harry, twenty minutes post-Draco’s arrival.

“Of course I have the fucking ring, Ron.” 

Ron gives Harry a pointed look, but doesn’t say anything else. Harry blows a breath out his mouth, shaking his jittery hands out as he contemplates.

The song switches out, and Draco turns to see Harry on the edge of the floor.

Harry’s muscles twitch where the ring box rests against his thigh.

Rhythmic pounding turns into the beginning of a loud, jumpy song, and Draco points at- 

At Harry.

“What’s he doing, Ron-”

Draco dances along to the music, motioning Harry over.

Harry shakes his head, but Draco closes his eyes, continuing to beckon him, now with both hands. 

“Go on!” Ron shouts, the arsehole, pushing Harry into the middle of the floor.

A loud whoop goes up as the surrounding dancers realise that Harry has joined them, and the crowd parts to give Harry far too much room.

And then, Draco’s hands are in his, and they’re jumping in a circle, Draco shouting out the words to the song. 

The dance floor lights flicker over Draco’s fair skin, casting different colours and shadows a thousand times a second. Harry can’t look away from him.

It’s dizzying, but Harry’s not sure if that’s from the dance, or if it’s because of Draco. Maybe a bit of both.

Draco pulls, and Harry goes along. He pushes, and Harry presses back against him. Draco’s hands never leave Harry’s, except to guide him along by the small of his back.

It’s less of a dance and more of a whirlwind, but it’s over soon enough, and Draco twirls Harry back into Ron’s arms.

“Good to see you, mate.” Ron grins down at him. Harry scowls at him, heart pounding in his flushed cheeks.

“You traitor.”

He’s going to make him say it aloud.

The fucking twat’s going to make Draco acknowledge, in no uncertain terms, that he not only remembers their agreement to marry at 40, but that Draco wants to marry Harry sodding Potter.

It’s a nightmare, is what it is.

What’s worse, everyone knows.

Luna kissed Draco’s hand when he saw her, and commented on his bare fingers.

Hermione saw Draco in white and immediately started laughing.

Pansy- Pansy. Pansy knows something Draco doesn’t, and she’s being a massive fucking prick about it.

And really, how much more obvious does Draco have to be??

Draco is looking at Harry an awful lot.

His eyes find Harry’s on the dance floor. Seek Harry out during Molly’s announcement about the cake being cut. Possibly winking at Harry as he licks frosting off his fork.

That one might have been a trick of the light.

Draco has winked at Potter forty-seven times tonight. Not that he’s counting, or anything.

The man is oblivious.

Harry cleans his glasses. Just in case.

Harry’s ears are ringing. He looks at himself in the mirror, flicking water off his hands.

Forty.

He doesn’t feel any different.

The soap has the same scent - Egyptian cotton - that lingers on Harry’s hands longer than any other soap. The scratchy terry cloth towel that Molly has been scrubbing by hand for thirty-some years feels the same as every other time Harry dried his hands. The odd light bulb suspended over the sink gives Harry’s glasses the same glare it always has.

In many ways, he’s the same as he was the day he used Draco’s wand to fire a disarming charm at the most dangerous living man.

But in other ways…

Harry pushes his hand into his pocket, feeling the soft, velvety outline of the box. He takes it out, flicks the lid open.

The ring gleams in the light from the one bulb overhead, the inset pearl shining with its soft lustre. Harry touches it, feels the smooth surface, wonders how it will look in twenty years. Fifty. One hundred.

He nearly drops it when there’s a sharp rap on the door.

“One second, sorry!” Harry calls out, snapping the box shut and shoving it back into his pocket. 

It’s Lee, and Harry passes him with another quick apology.

“It’s your birthday, mate.” Lee says easily just before the door closes.

Harry smiles tightly. It’s his birthday.

Draco sips slowly, pulse racing, as he slumps into the sofa. The inside of the house is blessedly quiet, though he can still feel the pulsing beat of the music in his chest.

An hour on the dance floor, and Draco is feeling every one of his forty years of life. 

He tips his head back onto the sofa, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. There’s a scorch mark from where Ron let loose one of the twins’ prank items. He’d heard the story half a dozen times over the years, each time from a different part of the family.

Thumping footsteps come down the stairs, and without turning, Draco knows it’s Harry.

“Party of your dreams so far?” 

Harry’s footsteps pause on the stairs, then resume. Draco rolls his head to the side to see Harry hovering at the end of the sofa. Draco pats the seat beside him.

“Thought you were out dancing.” Harry says, sitting sideways with one leg bent, facing Draco. 

“I was.” Draco says, shifting slightly toward him. “I’m feeling very forty. Had to take a breather.”

Harry lets out a surprised laugh, smiling down at his lap.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

“We were so energetic, as teens.” Draco says mournfully, turning his head back to the ceiling. His eyes close. “Do you think if we’d fought less, we would have more energy now?”

Harry laughs again, huffy and soft.

“Dunno. I don’t think we’d be here together if we’d fought less.”

“No?”

With a hum, Harry traces the finger that Draco’s signet ring usually sits on. Knuckle to nail, Harry draws a line up and back down. He moves to the next finger, his touch feather-light.

“We’d be indifferent to each other.” Harry says. “We probably wouldn’t have spoken after fifth year.”

Draco says something vague, not sure when he started watching Harry’s perusal of Draco’s ring-less fingers. Harry’s touch pauses, then resumes, moving from index toward pinky.

“I don’t think I could ever be indifferent toward you.” Harry says quietly. Draco smiles, chancing a look up at Harry’s face. Harry’s eyes are already on him.

“I never have been.” Draco admits. Harry nods, brows drawing together, his hand shifting to grasp Draco’s. Draco lifts his head.

“Draco…” Harry trails off, moving closer on the sofa. His frown deepens, and Draco watches.

“Hm?”

“Do you-” Harry clears his throat. “Draco, you remember that day. At Blaise’s-”

“Yes.”

Harry doesn’t finish his sentence, eyes boring into Draco’s. Endless green. Draco swallows thickly.

Sliding from the sofa onto his knees, Harry lifts Draco’s hand between both of his, close to his lips. Draco can feel Harry’s breath on his knuckles. 

“Everyone’s been talking so much shit.” Harry says. Draco huffs.

“This is a terrible proposal, Potter.”

“They say that it’s stupid, the two of us. Like there was ever anyone else.”

Harry pauses, dipping his head down to press Draco’s hand to his lips. Draco’s breath catches.

“And Ron says this can only end badly, but it couldn’t possibly.” Harry continues. “Because it’s only just beginning, right? And you and I- well, we fit together, don’t we? We’ve always gone together, two sides of a single coin.”

There’s a moment of panic when Harry releases Draco’s hand, but it’s only to retrieve something from his pocket.

The tiny box opens with the softest creak, and Draco feels a tear hit his trousers.

“Potter.”

“Harry.” Harry says softly. “If it’s alright with you.”

Draco laughs, wet and shaky. 

“ Harry, then. Harry, where did you get this? When did you get it?”

Harry doesn’t answer, but he looks rather pleased with himself.

“Maybe we are skipping a few steps, and maybe this is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done. But I’m willing to bet that it’s not.”

Pulling the ring from its box, Harry takes Draco’s hand once more. 

“Will you wear this ring, Draco?”

“Harry-”

“Will you marry me?”

“ Fuck- of- of course.” Draco chokes out, and then the ring is on his finger, a perfect fit, and Harry’s hand is cupping Draco’s jaw, and they’re kissing.

They’re kissing!

It’s only a moment, just a quick thing before Harry sits back. 

“You wouldn’t go out with anyone else after this, would you? I mean, I want to be clear, this isn’t a platonic marriage, I want-” 

“I know, Harry. Just you and me.” 

“Good.” Harry breathes, leaning up for another kiss, which Draco easily grants him. 

Harry holds Draco’s cheeks for a moment, looking into his eyes.

“Fuck, maybe we should have done this ages ago, but honestly, I’d wait another forty years for you. If that’s what it took. You’re worth every moment of it.”

All evening, Draco’s been on the knife’s edge of losing his shit, and when Harry says that , in that voice with those hands on Draco’s stupid flushed cheeks… 

Draco is on the floor with him, face hidden in the crook of Harry’s neck as he ugly-cries his way through the first ten minutes of his engagement.

“ Gods, you’re so cute when you cry.” Harry says soothingly into Draco’s ear as he pets Draco’s back, even though it’s his fault that Draco is crying in the first place.

“Don’t patronise me, Potter.” Draco manages, and Harry laughs against his hair.

Harry’s cheeks hurt from how much he’s been smiling tonight.

Between the congratulations, Ron and Molly’s quick-change on the party decorations - red and gold for white and gold, ‘Happy Birthday Harry!’ banner changed to ‘Congratulations, Harry and Draco!’ - and Pansy’s tipsy, good-natured but long-winded speech about how long this has been coming, Harry’s barely had a moment to breathe since he and Draco left the house.

Draco drags him back onto the dance floor for one final song, guiding Harry’s hands to wrap around his waist and hold him close. Draco rests his cheek on Harry’s shoulder, and they don’t quite dance so much as sway to the music.

“So you’re taking my surname, right?” Harry whispers, mostly as a joke. Draco opens his eyes to give Harry a disdainful look.

“I think I would be skinned alive if I made you become Harry Malfoy.” He says dryly. “Now hush.”

Smiling, Harry sets his chin on the top of Draco’s head. He spots Hermione and Ron watching on the edge of the floor, hand-in-hand and whispering to each other. Ron grins at Harry. That’s not a good sign.

He’s distracted from the room by Draco’s lips pressing a soft kiss to his throat. 

“Merlin.” Harry whispers, and Draco laughs quietly.

The song ends, and Harry kisses Draco again, this time to loud cheers and clapping.

It’s late, and their friends and family have already begun to disperse, saying their goodbyes and wishing the happy couple well. 

Harry could do with fewer ‘I knew it’ and ‘About time’ comments, but they’re all well-intentioned.

Still, it’s a relief when it’s only Weasleys left at the house, tearing down the party and steadfastly refusing to let Harry or Draco help.

Instead, Harry brings Draco to the garden bench in the front, overlooking the first garden Harry had ever de-gnomed.

Draco twists his arm through Harry’s, admiring his ring in the frosty moonlight. Harry admires Draco.

“It really is lovely, Harry.” Draco says, watching the pearl gleam as he turns his hand. 

“There’s something on the inside.” Harry says. Draco cocks his head in interest, slipping the ring off his finger and holding it up to the light.

“Inevitable.” Draco reads. He looks at Harry, his face softened by the smile on his lips. “Harry Potter, you unbelievable sap.”

Harry shrugs, hiding a smile.

“If you knew we would end up here, why didn’t you say something earlier?” Draco asks. Harry takes the ring to slip back onto Draco’s finger.

“It was inevitable, and you’re worth the wait.”