Draco smiled in spite of himself.
He had been doing that with alarming frequency in recent months. Try as he might, he was no match for the sheer force of nature that was Potter's circle of friends.
Looking around the packed table nestled in an isolated corner of the garden, Draco watched them; the way they fell against each other's shoulders and into each other's laps. The ease with which they laughed and shouted over one another. It was a wonder they could communicate at all, really.
Weasley sloshed ale over the rim of his mug as he weaved in his seat, first toward Hermione, then Finnigan and back again. Hermione, meanwhile, sipped primly at her wine and smiled fondly at the men and women around her. A flush coloured her cheeks when Ginevra stopped to whisper something in her ear and Hermione batted her away.
On one end of the table, Luna watched on with an absent smile, light eyes drifting from face to face, in much the same way Draco's were. Greg (who had actually witnessed the events of the story Blaise was telling) stared in wonder, gasping at the appropriate moments and whispering "What happened next?"
Laughing, Luna slid into his lap and relaxed against him, oblivious to the startled pleasure darkening his face. From Finnigan's other side, Thomas and Longbottom were watching Blaise, groaning along with everyone else as he added his own dramatic flair. Taking her seat at his side, Ginevra pressed herself to Blaise, bright laughter shaking her entire frame.
To Draco's left sat Pansy. He could count on Pansy; she wasn't swayed by these-
An inelegant snort drew Draco's attention. He frowned. There was Pansy Parkinson, hand clamped tight over her mouth and eyes squeezed tightly over streaming tears of mirth. Oh, for the love of-
Music drifted through still night air and Blaise rose his voice to compensate. A glance toward the open balcony door told him their guests were still enjoying themselves. He and Harry would have to leave, soon. Soon, he'd be surrounded by Weasleys and Aurors and far too many strangers, but not yet.
For now, Draco just watched. Sometimes, he'd shake his head, a wry smile curving his lips, when someone said something exceedingly idiotic. Occasionally - very rarely - a laugh would bubble out of him before he could tamp it down.
It was pointless to try, really; Potter's friends were a tropical storm, unstoppable as a volcano erupting, as a raging current dragging him along. They pushed and prodded and simply existed and Draco had no real hope of defeating them.
Hermione was a river. She wound her way through veritable mountains and smoothed out the rough edges of rocks as she passed. Making those around her better when she could, obliterating them when she couldn't. She was relentless, always pushing, insisting on greatness and goodness. Insisting it was there, just beneath the surface and, of course, she knew just how to find it; by wearing a person down until that smoothness was akin to a polish and the old, scored surface was no more.
Weasley was steady, warm. He was a flame, really. Not a whole fire; one bright flame. In a way, the Weasley family was the whole fire, but this one was enough to light a room and warm your hands. When Harry had shown up for dinner with Draco in tow - all those years ago - his reaction had been the most surprising. He welcomed Draco into the fold with a firm handshake and an ominous "Knew you'd come around." Still, Weasley could burn, if one were careless with the flame. He had learned that the hard way. Most importantly, Draco thought when he guffawed loudly at one of Blaise's bawdy jokes, Weasley sometimes made amusing images on a wall.
Draco laughed again, quite against his will, and turned away. His gaze landed on Longbottom, sitting between Greg and Finnigan. Harry said he was content to be alone, teaching and tending his greenhouse at Hogwarts. Draco didn't quite understand that. Longbottom seemed to need people in his life.
He was a tree, tall and sturdy and patient. He, alone, had come the farthest from the fragile sapling he'd been as a child. With the support of his friends and sheer determination to reach for the sun, he had grown into a great oak, spreading out to shelter those closest to him. In the same way, his roots shot out, tangling, tying him to everything and supporting life for miles around him.
Luna was a breeze, Draco reasoned. Warm and airy and persistent. She may never be able to move everyone, but that didn't stop her trying. She crept in through the smallest cracks and drifted around until, in a manner more subtle than Hermione's straightforward methods, she created a canyon. One couldn't help but love her, she made it simply impossible.
It was all of them, though. Ginevra, with her fiery passion and unwavering loyalty. Finnigan and Thomas, opposite in almost every way, but steady in everything that made them who they were. Every last one of them was as old as time, as sure as the rhythm of the tides, and just as powerful. They swept into Draco's life, every last one attached to Harry, impossible to sever. And Draco was surprised to learn that he didn't want to try.
Harry was bound to these people, as he was now bound to Draco, through history, shared experiences, and love. Harry Potter would not be the man he loved without these people. And so, when that shaggy black hair tickled his nose as Harry bent nearly double with laughter, Draco buried his fingers in it and used a handful to angle his head back.
When the green pools of his own personal forest lake met his, Draco sank into the soothing depths, pulling Harry's lips to his as he submerged himself. He'd be happy to drown in the deepest parts of Harry… Later.
Withdrawing, Draco relished the slightly dazed look in Harry's eyes. After a long moment, he faced the group and allowed himself to laugh along with Harry's friends. With their friends.
After all, he thought, admiring the ring glinting on his left hand. One couldn't fight the inevitable forever, right?