Different Words for the Same Thing
The sky outside the windows of the Ministry building is dark despite it being early evening; the clear glass is now frosty, and frozen water droplets cling poised and unmoving on its surface. Mid-November is proving to be one of the coldest that Harry can remember, and he's grateful to be indoors in the warmth—a very, very small comfort to his currently mounting anxiety.
"For Merlin's sake, could these trousers be any tighter?" Harry asks, pulling at the legs of his slacks and bending at the knees to test the elasticity of the fabric. He wonders if there is any chance that they would tear right at the seam and it seems very likely that they would. He frowns as he watches the fabric stretch across his thighs like a pair of leggings.
"Leave them be, Harry," Ginny says to him, waving his arms away and straightening the collar of his midnight blue satin dress shirt. He fidgets, reaching up to pull at the black silk tie around his neck, feeling as though it's trying to strangle him. Ginny clucks her tongue. "If you don't stand still I'll hex you into the next room," she says, her face perfectly serious. She waits until she's satisfied that Harry won't move again, and flips her long red hair over her shoulders. She steps back, looking at him up and down before nodding in approval. "Not bad," she says to herself, and reaches behind him for the final piece of clothing left for him to wear: a deep gray suit-jacket with shiny onyx buttons. Harry takes it from her when it's offered, and slips it on.
"You do realize that I'm only ever going to wear this outfit once, don't you?" he asks her as he turns toward the tall full length mirror that leans elegantly against the wall of the dressing room of Level Ten. He pulls at the sleeves of his jacket until it settles comfortably around his shoulders, fashionably snug around his arms. He makes a face through the mirror.
Ginny seems to notice his reaction and says, "Harry, this is the first official public appearance you've made in years. Everyone will be watching you tonight, but you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Trust me." She dusts off the nonexistent lint particles off his shoulders. "At least you'll look amazing for it."
Harry rolls his eyes at her reflection. "What a load off my shoulders," he says under his breath. Ginny chooses to ignore him and instead takes out her wand, waving it over his hair in the vain attempt of straightening it into a half-organized mess. He remains still, watching as she twirls her wand this way and that, her brows furrowing as they do whenever she's in deep concentration. It's to her credit that she makes no sound of impatience but nevertheless, she gives up after a few painful minutes.
"Besides," she continues unfazed, "I am responsible for your public image and if that means I'm going to be spending a thousand galleons—no. Yes. You're right; your galleons—on the latest Designer dress suit, you bet your arse I'm going to be getting it for you." She makes a quick check of the time and reaches up to adjust the ear piece that she wears while on duty. Harry can just barely distinguish the muffled voices issuing from it, and feels the nervousness building up at the pit of his stomach. Ginny curses suddenly, heading quickly for the door. "You'll be on in five, Harry," she says over her shoulder.
"What? Already?"
"Try not to move too much or you'll wrinkle my suit!" she calls out loudly before disappearing from the room in a flurry of flaming red hair.
Harry stares after her; he feels his hands beginning to sweat. He starts to pace around the room before remembering Ginny's words and he really needs this to work out so he stops back in front of the full-length mirror, trying to spot any wrinkles on his much too fitting dress suit, and when he spots none, he breathes in a lung-full of air, before slowly letting it out again. He fills his head with things that will bring confidence and dignity and manages only to make himself uneasy. It has always been this way whenever he stands in front of a large crowd: the nerve-wracking moments of before, as opposed to the quite empty, yet deep focus of during, followed by the amazing relief of the after—which is why he tries to keep these sort of public events few and far between. But with his rising position in the DMLE, and now the honor of being awarded Auror-of-the-Year in the next hour or so (never mind the fact that the honor is normally given to Aurors who've been on the field for nearly half their lifetimes—and here is Harry Potter, the Ministry's "Golden Man," having only completed his training not five years prior, with all this added fame, and the press taking liberty in shining the brightest limelight on him unremittingly), he is looking at more and more required, unavoidable publicity.
He tries to smooth the scowl that appears on his face. It's not as though he's ungrateful, no. But he has never and would never get use to the attention. He reaches up, fixing his jacket unnecessarily. He pauses when he feels a light weight in his pocket: a small box made of satin cloth, and a white-gold ring hidden comfortably inside its walls. He smiles…
"What are you smiling about?"
Harry heard the amusement behind the question and he turned around, the smile still on the corner of his lips. Draco was standing there, leaning against the doorway leading out on to the balcony where Harry now stood. Draco was looking at him, the corners of his own lips curving upward the longer Harry stared right back. He felt a tug of delighted triumph when Draco broke eye contact first, his smooth cheeks turning a delicious shade of pink. Harry bit his lip.
"I can't believe you did this," Harry said, finally turning away again to lean on the glass railing of the balcony, his arms folded along the ledge. The Parisian streets lay far below; the lampposts had been lit for the evening, illuminating the darkening roads and alleys with a glow that felt warm despite the crisp, cold air. The crowds of people were slowly thinning, and not far off in the distance Harry had the stunning, unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower—'the suite with the best view,' Draco had said as they swept inside the room earlier that day, and the words rang true.
Harry could almost feel Draco's modest shrug. "For some reason I felt you'd appreciate some time away from everything," Draco said to him. "Today seemed like a good time as any."
Harry tore his gaze away from the tower, dropping it toward the street below and following a group of costumed youths as they walked hand in hand down the cobbled road. He felt his heart clench at Draco's words, feeling slightly guilty at the mood he'd been in for the past weeks. But it had built up steadily: the stress of work, his climbing position of leadership, and the 'honor' of being named Auror of the Year in a few weeks' time; as a result, the days leading up to the end of October had been very exhausting. Not to mention that the Department had been on the brink of closing in on an anti-muggle hate group only to have them slip through Harry's fingers at the very last second—
"You're doing it again," Draco said, interrupting his thoughts.
"What?"
"Thinking about work."
"I am not…I wasn't."
"You are. You were, Harry, like you're always doing every single minute of the day," Draco said, but it was with an air of exasperated fondness. Harry sighed and turned around. Draco had stepped closer, standing only a few feet away from him. Behind him, the balcony table had been set up: candles had been lit and an intimate dinner was spread across in delicate crystal plates. Harry suddenly felt a tug of nervousness—a feeling that was all too familiar whenever Draco was concerned, but it was a pleasant sort of nervousness, the kind that came whenever Draco looked at him the way he was doing now—as though he would never tire of looking at him. Warmth pooled in Harry's stomach and he unconsciously felt for the little box of satin hidden away in his trouser pocket.
"You need to let go, Harry," Draco continued, catching nothing of Harry's reaction, and lifting a hand up to swipe away a loose strand of platinum blond hair. "Now will you listen to me and come join me for dinner?"
"Harry, will you pay attention?! It's time!" Ginny says, tugging him out of the dressing room and down the long narrow hallway of Level Ten, toward what Harry could only assume to be the Great Hall where the award ceremony would be taking place. All too quickly, Harry is ushered into a small waiting area, coming to stand in front of a set of double doors. He deftly chooses to ignore the poorly concealed gasps and whispers of some Daily Prophet staff. "I've given the reporters a debriefing already, Harry," she tells him, reaching up and fussing almost nervously with his suit, "so they're aware of what questions are appropriate to ask after the ceremony and which questions to steer clear from. Either way, I have all the confidence that you know how to navigate the stage and—are you alright? Do you need water? Can you bring Harry some water, please? Quickly—you'll do amazing. I know you will. Best of luck." She gives him a brilliant smile and after a quick kiss on the cheek she motions for the staff to open the doors and Harry walks through…
"How did Robards ever agree to let us go?" Harry asked, setting down his cutlery and leaning back on his chair contently. He grabbed his glass of wine from the table and took a sip. "You know he throws a fit whenever he hears the words 'time' and 'off' in the same sentence." His mind was already a bit fuzzy from the previous two glasses that he'd indulged in and across from him, Draco seemed to be in the same state, his cheeks slightly flushed with drink.
Draco laughed and Harry marveled at the sound. "It wasn't without compromise I can assure you," he replied, and Harry couldn't help but raise his eyebrows suggestively, his eyes glancing down to Draco's chest without permission. Draco was wearing a light gray dress shirt, the top buttons undone, exposing a sliver of pale, smooth skin. It was the shirt Harry had given him earlier that year on his birthday, though he regretted buying it since it was too form-fitting around his lean body, and made Harry's mouth water at the most inopportune moments. Like right now. When he glanced up again eventually, Draco had a knowing smirk on his face.
"Compromise?" Harry asked, his voice quiet. He couldn't help but think of the compromising positions he'd like to put Draco in, especially when Draco was looking at him so open and inviting.
Draco gave a small nod, biting his bottom lip and making Harry want to lean over and capture it between his teeth. "Two weeks overtime," Draco said in the most ridiculous husky voice he could muster.
Harry laughed, shaking his head and not missing the fact that Draco still sounded captivating even when he was joking. Draco's mouth was quirked in amusement, looking rather proud of his own wit.
"Two weeks?" Harry asked, a smile still on his face. "What does Robards think, that we don't have a life outside headquarters?"
"That's exactly what he thinks, Harry," Draco said, standing up and snapping his fingers as he walked over to the edge of the balcony. At once, the table in front of Harry cleared, leaving behind a set of ornate candles, pleasantly lit. The evening had passed by quick, and the sky had grown darker around them. The balcony was situated on the very top floor, giving them prime view of the stars glittering above, and the moon full and bright. Draco was leaning against the ledge, staring out toward the Tower in the distance with a content expression on his face. Harry suddenly felt warmth spread through him at the sight, and the nervousness came back at the pit of his stomach. He and Draco had been together for years now, nearly since the start of their Auror training all those years ago, but this feeling…of having Draco with him and be happy at his side…Harry sometimes just couldn't believe his luck, that Draco hadn't walked away from him after that first kiss he'd initiated in the Ministry's potion lab, or when he first confessed his love not six months later, wanting nothing to do with the ever suffocating life of Harry James Potter, savior of the Wizarding World—and to have their relationship be kept secret to everyone outside their circle of friends and family (but really, anyone with eyes could see how far their relationship really went), because Draco understood Harry's need for privacy, he knew that Harry had been in the limelight for more than half his lifetime, and he had never once complained about the fact that Harry answered all questions about his personal relationship from the press with a wary, "No comment."
The weight of the small satin box in Harry's pocket, along with the white-gold ring hidden inside, weighed pleasantly heavy and he found himself walking over, his wine glass forgotten at the table, and coming to stand close behind Draco, hands gripped to the ledge on either side of the blonde. He heard Draco's breath catch in his throat and Harry took a moment to enjoy being able to catch him off guard, even after all these years.
Harry leaned forward, his chest barely touching Draco's back, and inhaled the scent that had always been purely Draco: clean, warm, and the sharp scent of aftershave, before planting a soft kiss at the base of his neck. Draco hummed and turned on the spot, facing Harry, the tips of their shoes touching and their faces only inches away from one another. At this distance Harry could see everything, could see the small barely-there freckles that dotted Draco's nose and cheeks, the ones he would try to connect in the early morning hours while Draco slept, like small constellations on the plain of his skin, the ones Draco would always deny were there, ("I have a perfect complexion, I'll have you know, Potter!"); and the long blonde lashes on his eyes that Harry loved to watch as they fluttered closed, and the lips, those sinful lips that would haunt Harry's mind day after day, and he would imagine them, soft and pliant as they wrapped around Harry's—
"What?" Draco said as Harry's eyes lingered on his mouth for a good minute. Draco's smile quirked.
"I love you."
The words slipped out of Harry's mouth without thought but they rang true all the same—always have since the first time he'd said them, and every single time in between.
"What?" Draco said again with a small laugh, turning away almost shyly.
"I love you," he repeated, his heart rate speeding up for no other reason than how close they were standing.
Draco looked back at him. "I know that, you tosspot," he said affectionately. "Now let me out…you've got me trapped…"
"I love you a lot."
"Harry," Draco laughed again, "stop acting weird." This, also, had always been Draco's response to those three words, but far from it making Harry troubled, it made Harry smile. Because he didn't need Draco to say them back—he could always tell that he cared. Harry moved his hands to Draco's arms, moving them slowly upward, feeling the fabric underneath, up until his hands where at the sides of Draco's face and Harry pulled him closer, closing the distance between their lips until they melded into one, softly joining together, a quiet sound escaping from Draco. And they kissed languidly just because they could and they had all night. But Harry's heart still beat quick in his chest, and when he let his tongue run along the edge of Draco's mouth, across his bottom lip, Draco let out a small moan, and opened his mouth obediently; Harry slid his tongue inside, exploring, his kisses becoming more demanding until he had Draco pressed against the ledge of the balcony, which was likely digging into Draco's back but he wasn't complaining—and Harry's knee had somehow managed to slip between Draco's legs, the length of their bodies pressed flushed together. Draco wrapped his arms around Harry's neck, pressing into him just as eagerly and Harry let out a stifled groan.
"Harry…" Draco said his name against his lips, an urgent request that Harry had no trouble interpreting. Harry pressed sharp little kisses onto his cheek and his jaw, his tongue darting out hot and slick to slide along its edge, teeth gently nipping at his ear, and then darting back around to capture Draco's mouth for some rather intense kissing. Harry's hands couldn't get enough, roaming around Draco's sides and chest, the fabric of his shirt spread snug around him.
"God, I love this shirt on you," he said hoarsely, reaching under so that his hands could run along the warm skin of his navel and back around to the small of Draco's back, before coming to rest possessively on his arse. Draco was breathing hard into his shoulder and Harry could feel him shivering with need, his arousal apparent against his thigh. "Take your trousers off."
"What?" Draco responded breathlessly.
"Your trousers, Draco. Off. Now."
"Don't you know how cold it is out here?" But he reached down to unhook the button of his trousers, unzipping them and hiking them down. "Why don't we just do this inside? The room is right there…the-the bed…"
"Oh, we'll get to that soon enough," he whispered in Draco's ear, his mouth brushing against it tantalizingly. "Bet you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? Being spread across the bed and me buried deep inside of you, fucking you slow and steady just the way you like it. That sound good to you?"
"Fuck…" said Draco, shivering, dropping his hand urgently down to pull at his own erection and biting his lip hard in an effort to stifle the moan that threatened to slip out. "I—you—please."
Harry smiled, pressing a kiss to Draco's lips, licking across his mouth, before dropping smoothly down to his knees and taking Draco's erection into his mouth without warning.
Harry is momentarily blinded by the flash of lights from the photographers, and he hears the excited whispers of the witches and wizards congregated in the large hall. And it's large. When he pictured what he thought the ceremony would be like, it definitely wasn't one filled with about three hundred different people of importance, all sat on chairs lined in columns across the marble floor. Harry manages to keep his legs moving forward, down one of the aisles and towards the seat at the front row that has been designated to him, where he finds a beaming Ron, and Harry lets out a breath of relief at the friendly face. In fact, to his surprise, it seems nearly the whole of his team came to see his ceremony, dressed to nines and all beaming proudly at him. There's an empty chair next to him and he looks around, catching the eyes of more friends and acquaintances, but none of them are the deep silver gaze that he's looking for. He frowns, and figures Draco must still be working down on Level Two. Draco said he would try to make it, but Robards had been serious about working him overtime. Harry reaches for the familiar weight of the small box in his trouser pocket, bringing it everywhere with him in the hopes of finding an opportune moment…He tries to keep the smile on his face as more flashes blind him and is relieved when the photographers settle back toward the side of the hall.
Harry turns to whisper inconspicuously to Ron, "Why the hell didn't anyone tell me that everyone and their mothers would be here? Is that Kingsley? For fuck's sake…"
"Of course that's Kingsley, mate; he's the one who selects the damn winner," Ron hisses back at him.
"And the other four hundred people?"
Ron has the decency to look sheepish. "They told me not to tell you. Knew you'd want to drop the whole thing just to avoid the attention."
Harry glares at him but smooths his face after another flash of light is aimed in his direction. "Usually there aren't six hundred people at these damn things."
"Usually it's not the Savior of the Wizarding world being awarded Auror of the Year."
Harry doesn't grace him with a smoldering look. He gives a nod toward Dean Thomas sitting a few seats across from him. "You have any idea where Draco is?" he directs back at Ron.
"I thought he'd be with you, mate. Probably still stuck on the field. They got word this morning that the anti-muggle hate group was scouting some homes not ten miles from Berkeley."
"What?!" Harry says loudly, causing whispers from the reporters and more flashes of photos. He gives them a strained smile. "He's not supposed to go anywhere without my strict approval. I'm his partner!"
Ron winces. "Proudfoot gave him the greenlight. He set out with Oliver just before noon."
"Oliver? Just him? What time is it now?"
"Quarter to seven."
"Shit."
The audience begins to clap suddenly and Harry notices Robards, the Head of the DMLE, walking onto the stage and stepping up to the podium in front of them. The photographers rush forward. Harry feels his palms beginning to sweat and he wipes them on his trousers, knowing and not caring that Ginny will berate him for it later. He throws a final glance behind him, towards the double doors, but they remain closed. When Robards begins to speak, Harry tries hard to listen, but he can't help but think about Draco being out on the field without him. He worries his lip.
Draco was still quivering and languorous in the afterglow of his orgasm as Harry led them back inside the warmth of their hotel room, pressing light kisses to his cheek and the corner of his mouth. His own arousal was straining in his jeans but he made no move to relieve himself. Instead, he took Draco to the foot of the bed where he bent and untied Draco's dress shoes, slipping them off and placing them to the side. His socks followed soon after, as did the trousers which had still been pooled by his ankles. He stood up again, licking his lips and tasting Draco on his tongue. He reached over, his fingers working slowly on the buttons of Draco's light gray shirt, exposing more of that deliciously pale skin, and an abdomen toned from all his years as an Auror. Harry slipped the fabric over his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and marveling at the view that was Draco's naked body, bathed in the soft light of the candles that had followed them inside from the balcony table.
"Like what you see?" Draco asked with a raise of his eyebrow.
Harry was just about to move forward, to touch, to kiss, to answer Draco's question, but Draco held up a hand, effectively stopping his advancement. "No," Draco gave a tiny shake of his head, a smirk growing on his lips. "Take it off."
"Take what off?" Harry asked, his voice low and husky.
Draco dropped his hand, gazing pointedly at him up and down. "All of it," he said. "I want to lie here and watch you stripping everything off for me, Harry. Before you proceed to, ah, what was it? 'Fuck me slow and steady, just the way I like it?'" He stepped back and climbed onto the bed, giving Harry a glorious view of his arse and turning to lie down on his back, his thighs slightly parted and his hand tugging at his half-hard cock in a leisurely manner.
"Oh, fuck." Harry gave a full-body shiver, biting his lip hard and resisting the terrible urge to just palm himself frantically through his jeans. Draco's gaze travelled from the top of Harry's head, to his lips which felt hot and bruised, and then lower, to rest pointedly on the bulge in his jeans. And Harry didn't trust his voice to say another word, knowing it would be shaky and laden with lust, holding back a moan when Draco slid his free hand up over his stomach and then to his chest to pull at one peaked nipple. Harry made an overwrought noise and toed off his shoes and socks, at the same time unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the floor as well, and then he paused, unable to take his eyes away from Draco's hand, watching as it moved over Draco's growing erection. His mouth had gone terribly dry, his body hot with the need of wanting to feel Draco under him.
"Harry," Draco groaned, a crease forming between his brows and a frown on his lips. "This would be worlds better if you would hurry the hell up and fuck me already."
"You rushing me, Malfoy?"
"Yes, for fuck's sake. I need you," he said roughly. His eyes almost fluttering closed and his hand visibly tightening around his cock.
Harry never took his eyes away from Draco's as he shucked his trousers off along with his underwear, stepping out of them and wasting no time before he was on the bed between Draco's parted legs, moving Draco's wicked hands up and over his head and holding him down, capturing those sweet lips once more. Draco wrapped his legs around Harry's waist, pulling him closer until their groins were sliding hot and wet with friction and Harry moved his lips down to the base of Draco's neck were he bit hard, feeling Draco's shudder, and it wasn't enough. He needed more of him. Harry's hands had come down, and with a whispered spell he summoned a small bottle from his belongings, catching it and uncapping the top, shakily spreading the oil on his fingers and setting the bottle aside. He pulled away slightly, watching Draco's chest heaving, his kiss-swollen lips parted and his platinum blonde hair clinging to the sides of his face.
Harry was on his knees, hovering over Draco with one hand supporting his weight and the other, reaching down between them, gently searching for Draco's opening.
"Oh, fuck," Draco breathed, his eyes fluttering closed and his legs quivering around Harry.
"Is this what you want?" Harry asked calmly, though his heart was pounding fast, his body tense with wanting to bury himself deep inside of him.
"Yes…yes. Fuck. Please."
Harry worked him gently, slowly with one finger, and then another, spreading him open until Draco was mumbling incoherently, and then Harry finally added a third. There was a sharp inhale of breath, Draco's hands gripping the sheets under him and Harry waited for him to adjust, leaning closer to trail soft kisses on the edge of his mouth and Draco eventually told him to move—and soon Draco was gripping Harry's arm, his whole body flushed as Harry moved his fingers inside and out, the lithe body pliant, Harry's heart fit to burst at the sight of him. It wasn't enough. Harry pulled his hand away slowly, eliciting a soft noise of protest from Draco, and leaned back on his heels. He grabbed the bottle again, coating the palm of his hand, and stroking his length. He set the bottle aside, secretly basking at the helpless admiration Draco's gaze held as he watched him. Their eyes met and a moment later Harry found himself being pushed back onto the bed with Draco moving on top to straddle him, one leg on either side if his waist, and Draco's hands pressed flat against his abdomen.
A second more and a sound of surprise left Harry as Draco quickly lined himself up, and without hesitation slid himself down upon Harry's cock. "Holy sh—oh, my God!" Harry's hands came up to grasp Draco's hips, his eyes almost rolling back at the sheer pleasure, at the intolerably tight heat surround him.
"You need a minute?" Draco asked, the trademark smirk back on his face. But his chest was heaving, his body shaking, and Harry was sure he wasn't the only one that needed it.
"No, I'm doing just fine down here, actually…You?"
Draco laughed but it quickly turned into a moan as Harry began to move in a slow rhythm. Draco matched his movements, coming down on Harry whenever Harry would thrust up, his breathing slowly growing more and more labored.
"God, you're beautiful," Harry managed, unable to look away from the feverish color of Draco's cheeks, his skin bathed in the soft red-orange glow of the candle light, creating tempting shadows on the dips of his muscles, and then down to Draco's cock, fully hard and bouncing with each of his movements; and Harry had to stop, the feeling just too overwhelming and he was getting close. Draco however, seemed unable to stop, his hands gripping at Harry's arms, fucking himself shamelessly on top of Harry and he didn't think he'd seen anything more erotic, his heart fit to burst at the sight. With a strangled growl Harry flipped them over, never once pulling out, and moved Draco's legs so that they were stretched over his shoulders and Harry was pounding into him, hard and fast, reveling at the string of words falling from Draco's mouth desperately, incessant, different words for the same thing:
Fuck. More. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Harry reached down, wrapping his hand around Draco's length, stroking it in time with his thrusts, and it wasn't long before Draco's body grew tense, the muscles of his abdomen wound taut as a bowstring and Draco was crying out, the sound slipping uninhibited from his throat. Harry had only to slide into him once, twice and he was following Draco just as quickly, just as intensely.
He held Draco after, till the shaking of his limbs had long subsided, and his eyelids drooped closed. He kissed the corner of Draco's mouth, and the top of his head, his heart filled with warmth, and in his mind, nothing but thoughts of him.
"I love you."
"I know."
Harry doesn't know how he gets up to the podium without a slip. The hundred pairs of eyes that follow him burn at the back of his skull and the side of his head; the flashes of light are blinding as he accepts the strong handshake of the Minister, followed by the tight embrace from Robards, and suddenly he's left facing the mass, the speech that he's prepared and practiced going right out the window. He clears his throat, wondering perhaps whether it would be easier if he stares straight ahead at the wall, or straight ahead at the set of double doors at the end of the Hall. He reaches his hand down, feeling unconsciously for the small box in his trouser pocket, gathering courage, and opting to stare at neither, searching instead for familiar faces in the crowd; he spots some of the Weasley's sitting in the section reserved for his family, and behind them, the faces of some of his friends: Neville and Luna. But the only thing that comes to mind are the countless constellations he's traced, constellations made of small, barely-there freckles, and a mouth with its trademark smirk; warm skin and eager hands, and endless memories of a blond-haired man at his side.
Harry takes a deep breath. "Thank you, Auror Robards, for those…kind words. I know I've probably given you more hardship than all the beginning Aurors before me combined, but I hope that…ehm…that the overtime that I'll be doing in lieu of taking the day off today will ease your cold, cold heart." He aims a grin at the Head of the Department, who shakes his head good-naturedly. Harry waits until the audience has settled before continuing, "I would…very much like to thank every single one of you, family and friends, who took the time out of your…ehm…busy lives to be here today, and to watch me make a complete fool of myself as I try to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to be saying."
Harry looks away at the sudden flashes of light, feeling his face heat when Ron and the others start cheering him on encouragingly. "On a more serious note, I understand the responsibility that comes with the honor…the honor of being made Auror of Year…because I see that it weighs heavily on my mentors, on the Aurors that have received the award before me. And I can honestly say that I am speechless to have been found worthy enough, and to know that I have the complete trust of my colleagues, to be their leader and the person that they look to in time of need. Without a doubt there are many others who deserve this honor as much as I, and it is with them that I would like to share the glory; to my team of Aurors, my cohort, who started the journey right alongside me—thank you." He grins at the jokingly modest faces of the Aurors sitting in the front row, clapping along with the audience, and laughing at the sight of Ron turning beet red at the attention.
Harry slips his hand into his pocket. "Finally," Harry says, and waits for the last of the clapping to subside, "there is only one other person left for me to thank…" Harry pauses here, feeling something hard lodge in his throat. His hand closes around the small box, which is covered in a fine satin cloth, and the white-gold ring hidden well inside. "This person…has been through so much…has put up with so much adversity in order to get to where he is today,…and he still has the strength to encourage me to do my best, to be at my side…who has been by my side since day one…" Without thinking Harry glances up and manages to see the double doors closing shut, and his eyes are darting around the room, his stomach flipping when they land on Draco, who is standing by the back row, fitted in what could only be the most expensive onyx black suit, his hair slicked backwards and his steely silver gaze locked on him. Harry's breath catches and he's aware that people have begun to murmur, and he forces himself to continue, his gaze never straying, "This person…has never once backed down from a challenge—not ever—preferring instead to meet it head on and," Harry swallows, nearly shivering at the look Draco was aiming at him, "…and well, I just want him to know that…he has to be the bravest man I've ever met…I wouldn't be here without him…he's—" Harry freezes, his eyes widening in disbelief, positive that he's only imagined the silent stream of words that form on Draco's lips, mouthing the three words that Harry has never heard him say. And he finds himself walking forward, jumping down the stage to the confusion of the audience, but Harry only has eyes for him. He strides forward down the aisle, vaguely noticing the reporters and photographers following behind him, until he's standing right in front of Draco, his heart pounding fast in his chest.
"What did you say just now?" Harry asks him, searching his face for clues, staring at his mouth as if he could will them to form the words again.
Draco swallows visibly, glancing around him like a deer caught in the headlights. "Potter, what are you doing? The ceremony—"
"I've never known you to back out of a challenge," Harry says to him, hearing the desperation, the giddiness, the warmth partly hidden in his voice.
Draco lips grow thin, his eyes searching Harry's for long moments, the audience around them now wondering aloud what was happening. Slowly, as if waiting for Harry to tell him otherwise, the corners of Draco's lips turn upward.
"I said I love you."
Loud gasps escape the audience around them, the clicking of the cameras loud in their ears, their flashes blinding, but Harry barely pays them any mind—his face splits into the biggest smile, his heart feels as though it's soaring, bursting from his ribs—and then there's scream, a shout of surprise, followed by the furious clicking, the photographers going crazy, and for a moment Harry wonders why, until he realizes that he has fallen on one knee, with Draco's hand in his own.
"Harry. What in the world are you doing?"
Harry is looking up at Draco's startled expression, watching the shift as the beautifully sculpted face changes from utter confusion, to surprise, and then the dawning sense of understanding overcoming his features; and his mouth falls open, his silver eyes wide and round. Those same eyes follow the movement of Harry's free hand as it slides into his pocket. Harry takes out the small box with its fine satin cloth, and the white-gold ring hidden inside, and Draco is squeezing his hand really hard as if trying to ground himself in the reality that, yes, Harry James Potter is indeed asking for his hand in marriage.
The Great Hall of Level Ten is at an uproar; Ron and Dean and Ginny and the others rush forward, forming a protective circle around the pair, and someone is trying to quell the deafening roar of the voices in the audience.
And then Draco laughs, a brilliant laugh all teeth and rosy cheeks, his eyes glittering with tears that he will later try to deny were there, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth in sheer, unadulterated happiness. And Harry laughs along with him, his own tears sliding down his face and he has absolutely no idea what to say but he thinks it's okay because Draco is nodding, nodding and saying yes, yes, yes against his lips, along with the three words Harry has longed to hear, repeating them over and over and over until Harry believes them true.