Chapter Text
18 December, 2014
It turns out Draco hates book signings. The only part of the whole affair that’s been bearable has been having Harry’s company through it. And as rough as it’s been for him, it’s been worse for Harry. Harry’s the star of this show, which suits Draco just fine. He only wishes he could have made it easier for Harry.
They’ve come to London to finish the tour, delivering their very last reading and signing at Flourish and Blotts. They reserved seats for their family and friends at the front of the standing room only crowd, and the manager has just locked the door against the last customer. Only their nearest and dearest remain. Molly, Arthur, and Wanda corner Harry as soon as the door is shut, and Draco watches him over his mother’s shoulder.
“He looks well,” Narcissa says. “You both do.”
Draco will never look at Harry and not see the stone cold fox he fell in love with. And it’s true that he’s healthier these days. He eats and sleeps better. Most of all, he’s happy. He’s trimmed his hair for the tour, and he looks almost distinguished in his fitted linen suit. Draco sometimes misses the long mane and heavy scruff he grew aboard the Lunastus, but book-tour Harry is a heart-stopping beauty. Tonight, though, Draco thinks Harry looks tired. He hides it well, but the constant excavation of his past by hordes of strangers, along with the hero-worship he finds so tiresome, have worn him down.
“I’m glad we could spend some time in London,” Draco says.
And he means that. It’s been good for Harry to reconnect with the Weasleys, and Draco is happy to see his mother and the others—Andromeda, Teddy, Pansy, Grim, and Cate. He and Harry had a lovely dinner last night with Ron and Hermione and their kids. He’s grown fond of Rose and Hugo, who both combine their mother’s dazzling intelligence and their father’s good humour, but to very different effect. He got to know them better last summer at the inaugural run of ‘Harry and Draco’s Magical Deeside Camp for Young Witches and Wizards,’ which Teddy insisted they shorten to ‘Magical Deeside.’ Their lives are full to bursting, and Draco is grateful for all the ways Harry has purged his life of loneliness. But right now, Draco’s counting the minutes until he can take Harry home, alone.
“You wrote a beautiful book, Draco. You should be proud.”
Draco drags his attention away from Harry and turns it to his mother. She looks well, too. Ciaran Glas probably has something to do with that, and Draco has come to decide that the man’s not so bad. A little jolly for Draco’s taste, but he can’t argue with his mother’s happiness. “Thank you, Mother. That means a lot to me. It helped to have such a gripping story to tell.”
She squeezes his hand and kisses his cheek. “Poor Harry,” she says, which is the sum of his mother’s thoughts on Harry’s life prior to his relationship with Draco. Thankfully, she doesn’t dwell. “We’ll see you at Christmas. Why don’t you collect your beau and go home. I know it’s been a long tour.”
His beau. Harry is more than that. He’s fairly certain that Harry has no interest in marriage as an institution, but Draco is drawn to the symbolism of it. He doesn’t need it to know what they are to each other, but there’s a part of him that craves a rite to commemorate who they’ve become.
Harry saved his life once, and then shortly after, ensured his freedom. All these years later, Harry’s given him something even more dear—not only love, though that’s the foundation, but the clarity to know who he is, to know that he became someone not entirely new, but better, and most importantly, worthy. Hermione has told Draco a number of times how moved she was to find him so changed at the reunion, but what she doesn’t realise, and maybe no one does apart from Harry, is that in some ways the change he underwent in the months that followed was even more dramatic. He might have spent his whole life in opposition to his past if it weren’t for Harry.
Harry has said to him, in so many ways, “what’s mine is yours.” His home in Banchory, his friends and family, even his life story—all of it offered to Draco with a humbling degree of trust. Draco’s tried to reciprocate. He’s given Harry a Muggle key to his flat in Helsinki, which they’ve decided to hold onto. He’ll take Harry back to Evo this winter, and although Harry didn’t take to ice fishing quite the way Draco had hoped, he certainly found some inventive ways for them to spend their time in the hut. They’re even talking of sailing with Akseli, Eetu, and the rest of the crew for a month in June, before the summer campers arrive.
So he doesn’t need Harry to marry him to know that their lives are intertwined, that they belong to each other. It’s only that he’s given himself so little permission to celebrate or even acknowledge passages in his life since the war, and now he’s yearning to celebrate his joy.
His joy is currently dampened by bone-deep weariness from six weeks cooped up in hotels and bookstores, with almost no time outdoors, no physical exertion, and no time to fish.
“Draco,” his mother says, breaking into his thoughts. He realises he’s been staring at Harry but hasn’t moved to extract him from the small crowd around him. “You’re allowed to tell him what you want.”
He’s startled by the words and finds his mother looking up at him with a fondness he took for granted for so long. His mother is no mind reader, which means his thoughts must be written on his face. Or perhaps it’s simply that she’s come to know him well again. “I suppose I could,” he says, even though it terrifies him. Even though there’s still a part of him that doesn’t feel deserving. His mother smiles at him in return, and refrains from offering any further advice.
This time, when he looks up, Harry is on his way towards him, and he nearly collapses with relief. He meets him halfway, pulls him into a hug, and asks, “Can we go?”
“Please,” Harry says, and he sags in Draco’s arms. “No long goodbyes. We’ll see them all at Christmas.”
The two of them exit the store with no more than a, “See you all soon,” and a wave, and then, out on the pavement in front of Flourish and Blotts, they take each other’s hand and Apparate to Scotland.
The first thing Draco notices is the uncanny quiet, an unearthly stillness, and then he looks up and big, fat snowflakes wet his face. Harry squeezes his hand, and when he looks at Harry his eyes are wide and there’s childlike glee on his face. Draco realises that they’re standing in nearly a foot of snow. The porch light is on, and although it’s dark beyond the ring it casts on the drive, he can make out the blanket of snow on the hill above them, the heavy sag of it on the branches of the spruce trees that surround the three summer cabins they built into the edge of the wood, and the way it’s piled on the roof and the porch rails of their home like frosting on a gingerbread house. It’s gorgeous, and before he can comment, Harry laughs and throws himself at Draco, toppling them both into the snow.
Draco doesn’t have a chance to catch his breath when Harry, on top of him, licks wet snow off his lips and then slides his tongue into Draco’s mouth. The kiss is almost enough to combat the cold and wet seeping through the thin suit he’s wearing. Almost. But before he can complain, he’s enveloped in dry heat. Sometimes Harry’s magic is remarkably considerate. The way it calls to him and he calls back has changed. It’s still electric, intoxicating at times, but it’s just as often a calming, settling bond that flows between them.
He hums into Harry’s mouth and closes his eyes, sinking deeper into the pillow of snow under him. “I’m too tired for sex,” he says. And damn if he doesn’t feel old.
Harry tucks his face into Draco’s neck. “There’s always tomorrow.”
“And the day after that.” Thank Merlin, Harry’s not going anywhere.
“Will you fish?” Harry asks.
“I’d like to. Grayling is in season. Maybe tomorrow afternoon. I plan to spend the morning ravishing you.”
“Mmm,” Harry says, burrowing closer to Draco. “Acceptable.”
They’re quiet for a few minutes, breathing together and enjoying the peace. Finally, Harry lifts himself off of Draco and gives Draco a hand out of the snow. “To bed, Malfoy.”
If Draco weren’t so tired, he’d wipe that smirk off Harry’s face. Instead all he can do is grin in return. “To bed, Potter.”
They trudge up the snow-covered steps and Harry removes the wards on the door, letting them into their home. It’s cold for all of two minutes as they make their way to the bedroom, but Harry quickly warms the air and Draco pulls out his wand to kindle the logs they’ve left on the hearth into a welcome fire. They undress quickly, use the bathroom in turns, and manage to be curled up in bed in no time.
They haven’t spent a night apart since they left the Lunastus well over a year ago, but the strain of their days these last six weeks has put a corresponding strain on their nights. The comfort of their own home, the promise of a day spent outside in the snow, and Harry finally relaxing in his arms is like a sweet exhale. There’s so much he wants to say, but he’s content to wait until they’ve both had some sleep.
He’s close to drifting off when Harry rolls over in his arms to face him, running fingers through Draco’s long hair and kissing him soundly on the mouth. “What’s on your mind?” Harry says when he comes up for air.
Draco opens his eyes and peers at Harry. It’s too dark and he’s too close to see more than the gleam of his eyes in the dying light of the fire. “I’m half asleep. What makes you think I have anything on my mind?”
“There’s always something going on in that busy brain of yours, Draco. You’ve been trying to tell me something for weeks,” Harry says. “I want to hear it now.”
There has been a lot on his mind, even if he’s muddled from fatigue right now. “I don’t think I can stand another book tour,” he confesses. It’s too late to back out now with the advance in the bank, the release date set, and the tour scheduled for May, but he’s started to question the wisdom of publishing The World is a Magical Place: A Survey of Magical Practices Through Time and Across Cultures. He dreads promoting it.
Harry plants a kiss on his nose and sighs. “I’m going with you. Maybe we can make it short this time. It’s such an important book, sweetheart. Once it’s over, you’ll be glad.”
Will he? Perhaps. “Are you glad, now? This hasn’t been too much for you?”
Harry doesn’t hesitate. “I am. So glad. You told my story in the only way I could live with. The tour has been tough, but I had you there, and now I can put it behind me.”
Draco is excited for people to read his book. Maybe after a few months in Scotland and the promise of a quick tour with Harry at his side, he’ll be glad on the other end, too. He tries to muster a smile, because he will get through it. He wouldn’t have finished writing the book, let alone had the opportunity to publish it, if it weren’t for Harry.
“There’s something else, I think,” Harry says, reading Draco’s mood.
You’re allowed to tell him what you want. Draco pulls back a fraction on the pillow, so he can see Harry’s face. He runs his palm down Harry’s neck and grips him at the nape. He takes a deep breath and decides there’s no point to a preamble. “I’d like us to be married. I know it’s not what you want, and it’s okay. I’m okay without it. But you want to know what’s on my mind. I want to marry you.”
Harry blinks at him. He’s still under Draco’s touch, but something warm and wonderful travels up Draco’s arm from where he has Harry in his grasp. “You’re wrong,” he says. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to be married to you. I’d hate a big society wedding, splashed over the front page of the Daily Prophet, but the part with you and me? Yes, if you’re asking.”
Draco’s heart stops for a split second, his thoughts stuttering over Harry’s earnest expression and incredible reply. When his heart starts again, it’s a gallop and he has to gather Harry close to keep himself from flying apart. “You’ll marry me?”
“I will,” Harry whispers into his ear.
When Draco’s imagined it, they’ve been standing on the deck of the Lunastus, Akseli officiating, as he did for Nora and Eva several years ago. “In June? At sea?”
Harry nods into his shoulder. “Sure. What about our friends and family?”
Friends and family. They’re so lucky to have both.
“Maybe a small party at the close of camp?” Last year, they’d concluded Magical Deeside by inviting all the campers’ parents, along with their closest friends and family, up to Banchory for a festive picnic. Rose, Cate, and Millie’s twins had given a fly-fishing lesson to some of the parents. Teddy and Victoire had led a long walk through the Maryfield wood. Hugo and Sarah Goyle had shown off their blossoming carpentry skills. Arthur and Molly Weasley had come, his mother and Ciaran, too. Neville and Luna. Everyone they might invite to an intimate wedding.
“Perfect,” Harry says. And Draco feels it all then as he kisses Harry with promise—love and hope and gratitude, and he and Harry on a path winding into the future.
The End