Proposals and other Disasters

by DrarryandChill

In which Hermione meddles, Snape undresses, and two idiots get the future they deserve. They never make it easy, do they?

My Dearest Harry,

Happy Birthday! I've set an alarm for 8:30, and if you haven't fire-called me by then I'm side alonging Rose over to scold you. Today took some serious planning, dear, and that boyfriend of yours will never forgive me if you show up late. Wear that green top- it brings out your eyes!

With love,

Hermione Granger-Weasley

Potter-

If you are late this afternoon I will fillet you alive.

Birthday Wishes.

-Draco

(I love you. Wear the green top.)

Harry,

Happy 37th, Mate! Do us all a favor and get your old arse out of bed before 2, would you? 'Mione and Draco have been working together, and you know how they get going. She's in a right fuss, that one. I had to talk her out of sending you a howler this morning, and that was only by... Distracting her, so to speak. As I'm human and understand human emotions, needs, etc., (unlike our crazy robotic lovers), I've sent over a coffee and some chocolate frogs to make the ungodly time a little more bearable.

Cheers!

Ron

P.S. Hermione told me to tell you to wear the green top? I don't give a flying fuck what you wear as long as you and Malfoy manage to keep the clothes firmly on this time.

Harry,

I had to hold mum down, she wanted to bring you breakfast in bed this morning. As much as she loves you, I'm not sure how she would have felt if she walked in on you having a lovely birthday shag with Malfoy against the coffee table. You're welcome. See you tonight.

And , for Merlin's sake, try to be on time.

In the green shirt, or Malfoy will send you straight back.

Happy Birthday!

-Ginny

P.s. Luna sends her regards, and also asked me to tell you that green wards off the hucklefins.

Harry,

I had the strangest dream last night, Harry. I was being chased by a group of wrackspurts, all of them demanding I return their 'treasure'. I was quite confused by their insistence that I had taken this 'treasure' (you know how I feel about stealing, it affects my aura), and I kept spraying lilac essence to ward them off, but to no avail. I asked Ginny if she thought it meant something, but she thinks I may have just had too much to drink last night. What do you think?

Oh yes dear, I almost forgot! Happy Birthday! I do hope you know to be on time, but I'll try to distract him if you run late. I read last night about some very new potions research that could keep him talking for at least an hour.

Love you, dear.

Luna

(Wear green.)

The boy who continues to live,

I'd say congratulations, but you've been complimented so many times for merely staying alive that it feels tacky at this point. Draco's got himself all in knots over tonight's events, and as much fun as it's been watching him all flustered, I know that if you manage to screw this up I'll be the one supplying his alcohol, so I feel I must warn you; If you wish to continue to be the boy who lived, show up on time, and properly dressed, if you can manage. Although, come to think of it, "The boy who fucked up one too many goddamn times" has a ring to it.

-Pansy Parkinson

Harry,

You have always been a son to me, dear. I know it goes without saying, but if I learned anything from the war, it's that telling people what they mean to you is a privilege, and something we should do as often as we can. So, and I don't mean to be sappy love, I know you have big plans for tonight, but I simply have to tell you how proud I am of the man you have become.

Happy Birthday, dear.

(I've sent over some breakfast, though Ginny suggested maybe I shouldn't have. Terribly sorry if I've interrupted anything. Draco's favorites are in there too, just in case.)

-Molly

Harry!

Happy Birthday, you geezer. The Amazon is great, as promised, if a little hot for my taste. I'm sorry to be missing your evening tonight- there truly isn't anything for it. They want me back at the University this Thursday, and I've got very little besides a sunburn to show for my time out here. Personally, I think they've been a little outrageous with the timing; researching Amazonian werewolf roots and ancient cures isn't exactly a picnic, you know.

Enough complaining. How've you been? How's Draco? Have you finally bucked up and popped the question? I assume not; someone would have owled, I'm sure. You really ought to do it soon, Harry. If you don't, he will, and you know how terribly dramatic he is. Just think on it.

Send my love to Grandma, would you?

I miss her terribly.

Oh, and you can have some too, of course.

-Teddy Lupin

Uncle Harry,

I know you aren't awake yet. You are never awake before noon. Which is why, in approximately 28 minutes, if you don't firecall mum (which you won't) to tell her you're getting ready, (which you aren't), I'm coming over there myself to talk some sense into you.

You do realize how important today is?

Happy Birthday.

I'll see you in precisely 27 minutes.

-Rose Granger-Weasley

Future Minister for Magic

Uncle Harry,

Please be awake when Rose gets to your place, she's in a scary mood this morning. Happy Birthday, and best of luck, because Mum isn't much better by the looks of it.

-Hugo

Harry

Happy Birthday. I know you are prone to sleeping in, but Draco has been particularly high-strung about this evening and I would really encourage your punctuality this once. I will, unfortunately, be quite busy this evening, but I look forward to seeing you soon. Tea at the manor Wednesday, perhaps? Talk to Draco and get back to me. Oh, and you do look so ever lovely in green.

Regards,

Narcissa Malfoy

Harry folds the last note and adds it to the growing pile beside him, blinking the weariness from his vision, eyeing Draco's owl-who seems content (and most likely instructed) to peck Harry until he gets up-murderously. You would think he would be allowed to sleep in on his own birthday. Any decent Wizard would agree. Unfortunately, Draco Malfoy was not just any decent Wizard. And- as a crash from the sitting room reminds him- neither is Hermione Granger Weasley.

"Uncle Harrrrrrry!"

A fuzzy head pops around his door, quickly followed by an ever-freckly, ever-flustered, Rose. She stomps over to his bed, staring at him crossly.

"I asked you to be up by 8:30. Do you know what time it is right now?"

Ah yes, and ever-bossy to top it off.

"I was working on it," Harry mumbles, not yet in the mood for one of her infamous telling offs.

He buries his face in the pillow.

"You were not! You were sleeping! Look at you! You're still sleeping! Mum! Mummm! Mum!"

Hermione makes her way in now, waving her wand to clear up some takeaway boxes from last night.

"Sorry love, Uncle Harry seems to have forgotten basic cleaning spells, so I had to help him out. What is it?"

Rose points at Harry, accusing.

"He won't get out of bed!"

Now it is Hermione's turn to look disappointed.

"Harry James Potter! I know you got my owl!"

Harry groans. "Yeah and it was a wonderful way to wake up on my birthday, really Mione."

Hermione clicks her tongue, obviously not impressed. The bed shifts as she plops down near the foot, pulling the blankets from around Harry's ears.

"I see you've been awake long enough to read your mail."

"I don't have to get out of bed to do that," Harry grumbles, missing the warmth.

"Anything interesting?"

Harry sits up, resigned to the fact that he isn't getting any more sleep.

"Birthday wishes, mostly. Something from Teddy."

Rose perks at that, leaning towards Harry, who smirks.

"Teddy? Is he coming?"

Rose has had an innocent schoolgirl crush on Harry's Godson since he'd been over last summer and complimented her on how well her studies were going. The age difference was ridiculous, and Teddy was rather in knots about Victore at the moment, but Harry figured a little crush never hurt anyone, and it was nice to see Rose engage in some of the general silliness that was common for someone her age. Sometimes she was downright just too serious.

"He can't be there."

She deflates. "Why not?"

Harry sighs a little sadly. He'd been expecting it, but the news of Teddy's absence tonight still tastes of disappointment.

"He's busy with school, Rosie." She flinches in distaste at the nickname, and Harry grins despite himself.

"He's doing research on werewolfs in the Amazon, remember?"

She nods, still a little down.

"Come on Sweetie," Hermione says, standing and taking Rose by the hand. "Let's wait in the living room while Uncle Harry gets ready, it's 9:00 already."

Once they've left for the sitting room, Harry slides out of bed, taking his glasses from the bedside table. He walks to the bathroom, turns on the tap, and steps into the shower. He emerges two seconds later, cursing and thoroughly scalded.

"What the fuck?" He mutters, perplexed.

They'd had the flat long enough that turning on the water to where it is just the right temperature has become second nature. Either he's more sleep deprived than he'd previously thought, or the water coming out of the tap is significantly hotter than usual. He peers in at the offending stream, and notices that he's turned the water all the way to the right. That would explain the fiery hell pouring from the faucet. But he always turns it to the same place, and the water has never been this hot before. He'd have to ask Draco about it when they came home tonight. The man spent enough time in the shower, if anyone knew its secrets, it was him. It was a wonder Harry ever had any hot water at all. Come to think of it... That's probably why he's so used to turning it up all the way. But since Draco hadn't been home last night (he'd stayed over with Pansy, apparently she was in the middle of some kind of crisis), he hadn't been there to shower for an hour and a half this morning.

This is what love feels like to Harry. This expanding, making room for someone else. For so much of his childhood, Harry was well and truly alone. At hogwarts, he'd found people. People to love him. And he was grateful. He was. But it isn't easy going from abuse to adoration, and regardless of how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, there had always been a part of him that feared he would lose that love if he ever stopped being a hero. So, for the first few years after the war, when he found himself incapable of being that person, he isolated himself. When he'd decided to drop out of Auror training to teach DADA, his friends had wanted explanations, but he didn't have any to give them.

And then there was Draco. He'd shown up at Hogwarts, all smart retorts and sarcastic jibes, and it was the most welcoming thing Harry had felt since the war ended. In a world full of people who either worshipped, hated him, or treated him like he was made of glass, it was a blessing to be treated like a person, even if Draco was an insufferable git. Harry grins, stopping midway through soaping his hair, at the thought. He was an insufferable git. He still is. He wakes Harry up with cold toes, and takes up all the warm water, and picks fights with Ron, and makes fun of Harry's clothes- excluding the green shirt, of course- and he picks expensive wine that tastes the same as the boxed kind. He refuses to do the dishes and gives Pansy whatever she wants and drags him to ridiculous parties. But he also brings Harry coffee from the shop down the street, and rubs gentle circles in his back, and curses out biphobics on both sides of the line, and kisses Harry in the middle of the street. He fights with his mother about Harry, and holds him when he wakes up screaming.

They weren't simple. There was so much history there. So much pain. There was so much that kissing at the scars they had made of each other's bodies didn't solve. Scars that were left by others. Scars that were made by choice. It tore them apart and brought them back together so many times that it would have felt easier to never try at all. But when they were apart; God, it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Harry had always searched for him in every room. Since they were kids. And that isn't the kind of habit you break, even when it hurts to think of him at all. So he did what he always did. He fought for it. It was harder for Draco. Nobody who'd ever loved him had ever fought for him. By the time he was eleven, his parents hardly spoke. When he was informed he would be given the dark mark, and tears streaked his mother's face, Draco looked to his father, a sixteen year old with shaking hands and a wand that would never be able to cast the killing curse, and was told to bear it with pride. His father stopped looking him in the eyes. Harry had learned to love with the Weasleys. He had learned to love with his rib cage open, both hands extended, to reach- to open up, even when it isn't easy. Draco learned love with the Malfoys. He had learned to abandon love when it got hard.

But eventually, he made the decision to fight for it anyway. That night, he'd shown up at Harry's flat in cotton pajama pants. He begged, his hair a mess, his hands shaking. He never had to. Harry would have kissed him the moment he opened the door. But he did. And they didn't kiss that night. They didn't sleep either. They talked until their mouths were drenched in ink. And when there was nothing left to say, they leaned against each other, almost holding. They took deep breaths and learned the way the other's heart beat. By three that morning, Harry had known he was utterly and completely fucked. That he'd been that way for a very long time.

The water has started to go cold now, and Harry can hear Rose complaining about how long he's taking from the sitting room. He sighs and turns off the tap. It isn't hard to see how Draco gets so lost in those hot showers of his, and Harry regrets having to get out. He towels off and heads to the closet, pulling on his favorite pair of jeans and the Holyhead harpies shirt Ginny had given him a while back. He heads to the mirror, considers doing something with his hair, and then quickly retreats when faced with the sheer magnitude of hair products in their bathroom. He emerges, satisfied that he doesn't look like a complete mess, and heads to the sitting room.

"Harry James Potter."

Hermione narrows her eyes dangerously, and Rose, flanking her left side, does the same.

"Er... Yes?"

She huffs, before marching over, grabbing him by the elbow, and dragging him back to the closet.

"This is not the right day to be obtuse, Harry. Now, where is it?"

Harry looks at her, defeated.

"But Hermione! Every time I wear the damn thing, he-"

She shoots him a look to rival Molly Weasley, and he shuts up, resigned to his fate.

"In the box on the third shelf."

She smiles in satisfaction while going to retrieve the garment.

"Now, put it on."

"Mione-"

"Harry, shut up. He's put enough planning into tonight that you can handle putting on the damned sweater. Just because you are afraid of looking nice doesn't mean we have to suffer."

Harry mumbles defensively, but reluctantly strips his tee shirt.

The sweater is soft, and cashmere, and feels honestly wonderful against his skin. He breathes it in for a moment, the smell of fresh linen, before turning around. Hermione's jaw has dropped to the floor. Harry crosses his arms over his chest, defensively.

"See what I mean?"

Hermione peers at his in blatant disbelief.

"Harry. You look... Really good."

Harry groans in frustration.

"What is wrong with the clothes I usually wear?"

"What's wrong with this?" she shoots back.

The truth is, there is absolutely nothing wrong with the sweater besides the way it looks. It is too fitting for Harry, too soft and put together. It makes him look like he's trying. Like he's looking for attention. It had been a Christmas present from Draco the first year they moved in. Harry had loved it from the second he saw it. He hadn't taken it off for three days. He loved the way Draco looked at him when he wore it. His eyes grew misty and his voice was husky and drenched with desire. Harry still wore it on Sunday mornings, when they were home and had nowhere to be. If everyday was a Sunday morning, Harry would never take the sweater off.

The trouble came when they left the house. Because if Harry got attention when he wore a tee shirt, that was nothing compared to when he left the house in this sweater. He'd made front cover of the prophet the first time, with the headline: "The Smokin' One: How Harry Potter Has Gone from The Boy Who Lived to The Man Who Struts". Harry shutters at the memory. Ron has a frames copy hanging over his desk at the ministry, and Draco had a tee shirt made. It was horrifying, and Harry had point blank refused to emerge from their flat for a week. Ever since, he's done his level best to avoid wearing it out, to avoid the hordes of witches and wizards who seem even more committed to swooning at him than they usually were. Draco, of course, didn't help the situation. "Sorry, ladies," he'd shouted at a particularly persistent gaggle of older witches, "he's taken." He made a point to talk loudly about how ever charming you look in that sweater, love, much to the Harry's horror and the general admiration of the public.

"It always causes such a spectacle."

Hermione smirks. "Your boyfriend loves a good spectacle."

Harry groans. "He sures does."

"And as much as I advocate getting his knickers in a bunch on a day-to-day basis, tonight is important."

Harry sighs.

"I suppose it is rather soft..."

Hermione grins.

"Perfect! Now let's get out of here! We have errands to run."

Fifteen minutes later, they stand in London. They've just dropped Rose off at home- 'Sorry Uncle Harry but I really must get back to studying"- and Hermione leads him by the arm towards a set of suspicious looking shops.

"Mione, why are we going shopping? I thought you guys had all you needed for tonight."

Hermione rolls her eyes.

"Of course we have everything for your party Harry. Did you really think we'd leave you alone the whole afternoon?"

Harry moans, quite wishing she had.

"So you woke me up at the crack of dawn to go shopping?"

"Of course Harry," she sings in a breezy voice. "Why else?"

Harry grumbles, but doesn't retort as they step into the first shop. It appears to be a bookshop, and Harry conceals a grin.

"I think you just wanted an excuse to go book shopping."

Hermione snorts.

"Harry Potter I am the Minister of Magic. I don't need an excuse to go book shopping."

Harry rolls his eyes and follows her to the back of the shop. When it becomes clear that she is going to spend the whole time reading through Magical Philosophy, Harry wanders off, wondering if he can find that new potions book Draco has been after. He asks the lady at the front desk where to look, but is disappointed to discover that he is unlikely to find what he's looking for. Their library at home has twice the amount of potions books this store has, and in much better condition. It's a safe assumption that Draco is not a used book kind of person.

Disheartened and still longing for bed, Harry meanders around the shop. Eventually, he finds himself in the romance section; the kind of books Molly Weasley has stored in her bedroom. He picks one up at random, desperate to alleviate his growing boredom, as Hermione looks no closer to being finished. The cover features an extremely burly ginger man who vaguely resembles Charlie Weasley riding a dragon bareback in nothing but leather trousers. Harry snickers and makes a mental note to send the older Weasley a copy for his next birthday. The book is titled "The Proposal" by Marina Lockhart. Harry's mind flashes to Teddy's letter. It has been gnawing at his conscious all morning.

' Have you finally bucked up and popped the question? I assume not; someone would have owled, I'm sure. You really ought to do it soon, Harry. If you don't, he will, and you know how terribly dramatic he is. Just think on it.'

Harry has thought on it. If he's honest, he's been thinking on it since he saw Draco at his first staff meeting 10 years ago. It isn't that he doesn't want to marry Draco; he wants to marry him so badly that his heart speeds up just thinking about it. Only... It's never felt like the right moment. In the beginning, they were too much, too fast, too unsteady. It took Harry two years to tell Draco he loved him, and it took Draco another six months to say it in return.

Admissions aren't easy for them. They're a lot better than they were, but there are still nights when they have to wait until the sun sets to utter a single word. Where they have to sit in the dark and look up at the ceiling. When they can't look each other in the eyes and be honest in the same breath. The problem isn't trusting each other; only, when you have lived your whole life whispering the worst parts of yourself to the dark, it is hard to say it to the daylight. To look into the face of the person you love most in the world and be imperfect. It isn't something that comes easy to either of them.

So how does Harry ask Draco to marry him? Teddy makes it sound so easy. Maybe it should be that easy. But it isn't ever simple with them. And Draco... Draco has a hard time with marriage. Understandably. Harry had brought it up once, three years into their relationship. Draco had frozen in bed beside him. He'd sat straight, avoided Harry's eye, apologized, and left. He hadn't come back for three days- when he had, it was bearing nothing but chocolate, coffee and a smile. They'd never talked about it since.

And Harry had been okay with that. He'd wanted to be okay with that. Draco had stayed, and it had felt like enough. It should be enough. But the truth is, Harry wants to be married. He wants to have a big Weasley wedding, and listen to Narcissa fret over venues and catering and tradition, and he wants to see the Daily Prophet article as he is "officially taken off the market". He wants to carry Draco over their threshold and introduce him as his husband at ministry events, and he wants to hear the moans of pain as their students relinquish 10 galleons to their classmates, all of which have been placing bets on when they'd tie the knot for the past 6 years.

And he wants to receive shared invitations. He wants to be allowed in the hospital room the next time Draco has a potions accident. And damn it, he wants kids! He wants to adopt and watch Draco be a parent. Be a father. It terrifies him. Harry knows. But he wants it, too. Harry can see it when they babysit Rose and Hugo, and when Teddy spends the weekends with them. There is a wistful kind of sadness there, and Draco is always quiet after they leave. Harry wants to have that. Not for a weekend, not for a Friday night, not for the summer. Every day. He wants and he wants and he wants so much he burns with it.

But he doesn't want to force it. He loves Draco. He loves Draco more than he wants any of that. So he lets it go. Every day. He lets them go. Those dreams. Because this man; this beautiful, stubborn, headstrong git. He is the greatest dream Harry ever dared to dream. And it is more than enough, it really is.

Harry sighs and sets the book down on a table. He's thinking himself in circles, and he knows it. It isn't always like this. Harry is usually perfectly content. It just pops up occasionally, is all. In a letter from Teddy, or a look from Molly, or an invitation that reads 'spouses only'. And the desire wells up in Harry, like an old ache he has just been reminded of. The hurt floods him, and it takes time to lock away again. To forget. But there isn't anything for it, and he knows better. Tonight is Draco's night, and Harry will be damned if he ruins it over something he can't change.

Technically, it's Harry's night, but it belongs more to Draco than it does to him. Harry's birthday's were an affair by design, had been since he'd told Draco that he didn't receive a proper present until Christmas of first year. Draco hadn't said anything, but he'd rode in on a horse for their anniversary that year, and it had said more than enough. It's important to him that Harry feels wanted. That Harry is happy. And Harry isn't going to ruin it.

He walks out of the Romance section with determination, and finds Hermione at the checkout counter.

"Done yet?" He snaps, and then winces at how crabbish he sounds.

Hermione shoots him a look.

"Harry? Would you like to share with the group?"

Harry sighs, feeling guilty. Hermione had put a lot of work into tonight as well.

"No. Sorry 'Mione, just something Teddy said in his letter. 'S been bothering me."

"About werewolfs?"

Harry laughs. He wishes Teddy's letter had been all about werewolfs.

"No, not about werewolfs."

"About Draco?"

Harry groans. She isn't going to leave it alone.

"About us."

She waits, expectantly, leading Harry out of the shop, a large shopping bag in hand. Harry sighs, resigned.

"He wants to know whether I've asked Draco to marry me."

Hermione freezes, her shoulders tensing.

"Ah?"

She feigns nonchalance, but not very well, and Harry grimaces. He knows she has... Opinions on the matter.

"Yep."

"And?"

"And what? Don't you think you would have heard if I had?"

Hermione snorts.

"Harry you know what I'm asking."

"And you know what my answer is. We are fine the way we are."

She pauses then, pulling him to the side of the sidewalk and examining him carefully.

"Harry I need you to be honest with me."

Her sudden intensity sends a shiver down his back, and he nods. He knows well enough to be afraid of Hermione in a mood like this.

"Do you want to marry Draco?"

The answer is simple, but he is afraid to tell it, afraid it won't make any sense to her. But this is Hermione, and she only wants what's best for him. She wants him to be happy. And she will try to understand. Truthfully, he needs someone to understand. So he gives in.

"More than anything, Hermione."

Something in his tone shocks her, and she looks at him with wide eyes.

"But that's never been the problem."

She looks at him, an old concern flooding her features.

"We need to talk, Harry."

She grabs his arm and apparates. The familiar tug on his navel is less disturbing now than it was at first, but it certainly isn't his preferred method of travel. For now, though, Harry makes an exception. He knows where they are before he opens his eyes. There is the smell of tea, and the sound of gentle voices, and the distinct heat of fire. He opens his eyes to an open, airy room, with high ceilings and glass walls, behind which can be seen a beautiful garden. Throughout the room are a dozen or so little round tables, each set with a quirky teapot and a few mismatched mugs.

This was the talking place. After the war, they had all needed somewhere new to be. Somewhere that didn't still stink of fear. Somewhere where the chairs did not seem abandoned, only unoccupied. Somewhere not haunted by the people you used to go there with. So they'd all slowly found new places. Places that didn't remind them of anyone. And they didn't all get together in groups for the first few years. It was too painful. Because regardless of where they met, the space next to Parvati would always belong to Lavender, and George always got a little more wasted than he used to and after the war, no one seemed like a fun drunk anymore. So they met in pairs, always in different places. He and Ron found a muggle pub in Surrey where no one knew about the war at all, and they meet there every time one of them shows up sobbing about a person they cannot reach anymore. This tea shop, Peppermint and Garden Leaves, this was where Harry and Hermione met when Harry bottled everything to the boiling point. Even though the pain has faded to a dull ache, and they often get together to celebrate the results of a quidditch game or congratulate someone on a marriage, baby, or promotion, they still retain these places. They have become a ritual, and rituals are important in healing. In normalcy. Besides, it is a brilliant tea shop. The owner, Isa, greets them with a smile and walks them to their usual table, promising to bring out "the usual", and hurries into the kitchen.

Harry makes small talk about the garden, and Isa, and the ladybug teapot. Anything to delay the conversation they came to have. Hermione waits, patiently. She always does. It isn't a long wait, and she knows it, because by now this place is as familiar as his own office. By the time Isa has poured them a cup of tea - "Chai for you, love, with a chocolate scone. And earl grey for you, Hermione, and I've asked after the bergamont for next time, dear"- there is nothing else to distract himself with.

"Harry. Explain."

"He doesn't want to get married, Hermione. You know that."

"Do I?"

The truth is painful and easy.

"I asked once, remember? Asked if he ever thought about it."

"That was 6 years ago."

"I almost lost him."

Hermione is silent for a moment, as if she is weighing something in her head. Harry watches her think, wondering where she's going with all this. Though it was rocky at first, Draco and Hermione have become close friends over the last couple of years, and Harry wonders if she possibly knows something he doesn't. He takes a sip of his tea, anxious. A quiet Hermione has the potential to be just as frightening as a loud one. Finally, she seems to come to a conclusion.

"People grow, Harry. People change. What they want can change."

Irritation wells up in Harry's chest, because how is he expected to take that risk?

"What I want hasn't changed, Hermione. I want him. And that means I won't force him into this."

Hermione sighs softly, patting Harry's hand on the table.

"You haven't given him a chance to say he wants it, Harry."

Harry begins to argue, but she holds up a finger to quiet him.

"Six years ago, Harry. Six years ago, and he overreacted and he hurt you. Don't you think it's possible that he just doesn't want to do it again? That he's frightened of what you might say?"

Harry looks at her, hopeless.

"And what if you're wrong, Hermione? What if he isn't scared, and he hasn't changed, and the reason he hasn't brought it up in the past six years is that Draco just doesn't want to marry me? What then?"

Hermione looks at him now, long and hard and disappointed. "You know what, Harry? I love you, but I am not the right person to give you this talk."

She stands up, turns on the spot, and apparates, leaving Harry alone and no less confused than before. In fact, she leaves him more confused that he was when they entered the shop, because she apparates right back with a flustered and rather put out Ron Weasley, before giving them both a stern look.

"He, however, will be excellent at giving this talk."

Ron gulps, clearly not quite so confident in his ability to do just that, and tears off a corner of Harry's scone, before nodding.

Satisfied, Hermione makes to apparate again, stopping to say one more thing to Harry.

"Harry, you have lunch with Draco at 3. The teapot will be your portkey, Isa arranged it all perfectly. I will see you tonight."

And with that, she's gone.

"Scary when she wants to be, that one."

Ron's voice is fond, and it breaks Harry's trance.

Harry looks at Ron, expecting to find the bewilderment he feels at Hermione's behavior reflected in his best mate's expression, but is surprised to find that, while Ron looks exceedingly reluctant, he isn't exactly surprised. He seems to have visibly relaxed while not under the glare of his wife on a mission, and gave Harry a bemused smirk.

"That time already?"

"You knew this was coming?" Harry demands.

Ron only nods, apparently enjoying the scone- Harry's favorite- immensely.

"Eventually. It had to come out one day, mate."

"What had to come out?"

Ron's eyes grow wide with exasperation, and he sighs a long-winded, over-dramatic sigh that makes Harry wonder if it's really her mum that Rose takes after, after all.

"You. The Hufflepuff-ness. The absolute bollocks excuse for gryffindor bravery. The pathetic, astonishing, truly excruciating pain of having a best mate who is too much of a coward to ask the man he has been in love with since sixth year to marry him. You know, that kind of thing."

Despite the humor in his words, Ron doesn't laugh. He doesn't break a smile, or pat Harry on the back. Instead, he looks him dead in the eye while he finishes.

Harry gapes at his best friend, more than a little hurt. Ron had only talked to Harry like this four times the whole period they'd known each other. The first, after they'd saved him from the Dursleys' house second year, when he'd lectured Harry for not telling him how poorly they really treated him. The second, when he'd snapped at everyone in Grimmauld place about not understanding, and Ron had sat him down gently and told him to pull his head out of his ass. And the last two had been about Draco, as this one would be. One nine years ago, when they were in the middle of figuring this thing out, and Draco had pulled up his left sleeve in a challenge Harry couldn't answer. That day, Ron had pulled up both his sleeves, revealing the scars crisscrossing his body, left over from the ministry in fifth year. We all have scars, Harry, he'd said. The last time they'd had a talk like this, of course, was six years ago, when Draco had been gone for two days and Harry was filled with grief and anger. Ron had told him to wait it out, that things take time.

Today, he calls Harry a coward.

And Harry thought he only partly deserved it.

"Ron, you know as well as I do that I've tried before."

Ron gives him an unimpressed look that tastes strongly of his wife.

"Harry, as Hermione has probably already reminded you, that was six years ago."

"What's changed?"

Ron visibly baulks at the question, and Harry can't blame him. Everything with Draco has changed in the last six years. Six years ago they had still been so tentative, so new, so unsure this thing between them would work. Six years ago, Hermione and Draco weren't friendly enough to sit a few minutes alone in a pub while Harry went to the loo, and now they are off conspiring against him and throwing extravagant birthday parties. Draco is completely different now. Hell, Harry is completely different.

He sighs.

"Okay. So some things have changed."

Ron nods pointedly.

"But what makes you think this is one of them, Ron?"

Ron takes a sip of Hermione's tea, grimacing at the lack of sugar (Hermione likes her tea bitter. Ron does not.) He looks at Harry seriously for a moment, as if expecting him to come to the answer on his own. When it becomes clear that he isn't going to say anything else, Ron sighs in exasperation.

"Do you remember when I asked Hermione to marry me? How nervous I was?"
Harry nods. He'd been a hot mess.

"Do you remember what you told me?"

"Er... That you were a right mess but she loved you anyway?"

Ron rolls his eyes, concealing a smile.

"Yes, that too. But what I meant, you wanker, is that you told me you wouldn't have ever let me ask her if you didn't already think she'd say yes. Remember that? Some codwaddle about helping me avoid heartbreak and whatnot. Quite a speech, truly."

Harry prickles. He had, indeed, worked very hard on that speech.

"I was quite proud of it, as a matter of fact. What's your point?"

Ron rolls his eyes, and Harry is quite certain that if one more person does that to him today he will return to bed immediately, damn the party to hell.

"Mate, now you're being thick on purpose. Do you really think Hermione would have brought you in here, or that I would have let her drag me in here- in the middle of a canons game, you bloody prick- if we thought he would hurt you? If we didn't think he wanted you?"

Harry groans, his frustration at his friends' well intentioned, but completely pointless intervention boiling to the surface.

"I feel like I might know him a bit better than you, wouldn't you think?"

Ron slams his hand on the table, giving Harry a fierce stare.

"This routine may work on Mum when she asks, mate, but you aren't about to pull it on me. We both know this thing you have isn't about Draco."

Harry makes to interrupt but Ron isn't having any of it.

"We both know that you are just afraid to ask. Afraid to be wrong. Afraid he will walk away again, even though everyone can see how much he wants this. How much he wants a family. You both do. You both want so many things. And you're cocking it all up, mate."

Harry sits back in his chair, stunned. Tears prick the corners of his eyes at Ron's words; he knows they want a family. He knows he's scared. But to have it all laid out in front of him like that leaves him feeling...vulnerable. And stupid. Incredibly stupid.

He heaves a great sigh.

"I've made a bloody mess of it, haven't I."

It isn't a question, but Ron answers anyway.

"Definitely." He smirks. "But I have a feeling he'll forgive you."

Ron stands to leave, and Harry looks up at him in horror.

"That's it? You come, eat my scone, call me a coward, and leave?"

Ron grins from ear to ear.

"Pretty much, mate."

He brushes the crumbs from his jumper and gives his regards to Isa, before apparating away.

"Harry," he says over his shoulder as he goes, "don't you have something you need to do?"

Harry starts, suddenly aware that he is expected to do something.

He calls Isa over, anxiety growing by the minute.

"Isa, what time did you say the portkey was leaving for lunch? I'm afraid I have an errand to run."

The older woman smiles at him knowingly.

"I thought you might. The portkey leaves at three."

Harry looks down at his watch and pales.

"It's one-thirty."
"Then I suggest you go get that ring, young man."

He looks up, startled. Does everyone know what's happening besides him?

"How did you-"
"Oh please, honey. It's written all over your face. Now go! I can't stop this portkey from leaving."

With that, Harry's teacup is snatched from the table, he is pulled from his seat by surprisingly strong arms, and pushed soundly out the door.

Well, fuck. What is he supposed to do now? As often as Harry has thought about marriage, he's never really thought about proposing. Is that what he's doing? He still feels a little light headed at the whole of the events in the tea shop. It's what he wants to be doing. He knows that. And he knows that if he chickens, his best mates, interfering gits that they are, will never forgive him. If he's honest, he'll never forgive himself. So.

He's proposing, then. He rolls the word around in his mouth, distinctly not liking the way it makes him heart race and his mouth go dry. How does one go about proposing, anyway? Well, his mind supplies, a ring might help. Harry chokes. A ring. He needs to find a ring. A ring to ask Draco 'please Potter, everyone with proper breeding knows gold under 23 karats is plebeian' Malfoy to marry him. In an hour and a half.

"Blimey," he says in desperation, "I need help."

Then, without giving himself time to back out of it, he turns on the spot.

There is only one person who might be able to help him, and he isn't looking forward to it.

"Harry, so nice to see you."

If she's surprised, she doesn't let on.

Harry sighs, almost positive that his next words will be a mistake.

"Narcissa, I need your help."

The blonde woman- Harry swore she used a potion, but Draco wouldn't hear it. 'Malfoys don't go gray, Potter. It's genetics.'- pales immediately, her pleasant expression crumbling as she sinks into her armchair, a fine copy of Pride and Prejudice that she'd been reading when Harry came in slipping off her lap and onto the floor.

"Draco? What's happened?"

Her voice is quiet and laced with fear, and Harry steps forward, confused.

"Draco? Draco's fine, Narcissa. Why would you think something was wrong?"

The tension in Narcissa's shoulders fades, only to be replaced with a tart expression.

"My mistake, Mr. Potter. You've only just burst into my sitting room without notice, looking panicked enough to fight the dark lord, and begged for my help. What ever could have led me to believe there was an emergency?"

Her voice is drenched in sarcasm, and Harry suppresses a groan. Like mother, like son.

"I didn't beg, Narcissa. I apologize for interrupting, though i will admit some surprise at your literature choices. That is, if I'm not mistaken, a muggle novel, isn't it?"

Narcissa pinks.

"Potter, I really do mourn for Draco, constantly victim to your atrocious manners. Mrs. Austen was a witch, of course."

She sniffs, and Harry conceals a grin. He'd have to ask Hermione about that.

"Naturally." He says, trying for sincerity. By the narrowing of Narcissa's eyes, Harry notes with pleasure that he is not entirely successful.

"Did you come to remind me that Draco has poor taste in men? Because I'd hardly forgotten."
Harry's retort dies in his mouth as he remembers his very real- and very time sensitive- reason for being there.

"Ah.. Yes. I mean, no. I do have a reason for being here, that is."

Narcissa's pale eyebrows reach towards her not at all declining, thank you very much hairline at his eloquence but she stays blessedly silent.

"I need... I need a ring."

She looks at him, incredulously.

"A ring. Have you, perhaps, tried a jeweler? I seem to own all the rings in this house I'm afraid, and I'm rather attached. Don't fret, I will set you an appointment with Augustus immediately, though you could have just owled him yourself. Not your fault, of course, poor thing. Being raised with muggles would addle even a smart wizard's brain, Merlin knows what it's done to yours-"

"A wedding ring, Narcissa."
She freezes, taunt frozen in her throat. Bloody good thing, too, Harry thinks, I'm not quite sure I could handle another second of it. Not right now.

"For Draco?"

Harry rolls his eyes, feeling a bit stupid.

"Yes, for Draco. I'm asking him to marry me. I know that I'm not good with this stuff," he ignores Narcissa's snort, "but you are. And I want him to like it. I want it to be special. I want him to feel proud wearing it. So can you help me or not?"

He's breathing hard by the time he's finished. He considers Narcissa's reaction.

Her eyebrows are drawn in, her lips slightly open in ill concealed surprise. It isn't as bad as he was expecting, and relief pumps through him.

She opens her mouth, as if to speak, then thinks better of it, pursing her lips.

"I have quite a lot to say, Mr. Potter. To both of you. However, I have a rather keen suspicion that it will have to wait. When do you need this ring?"

Harry grimaces, looking at his watch.

"Sometime in the next hour."

Narcissa shakes her head in disbelief, stands up, places her book on the shelf, turns on her heel, and exits the room in a few long strides. Harry stares after her.

"Potter. Are you coming? I assume I do not have to remind you we are working under a time constraint."

Quickly, Harry makes his way into the hall.

Narcissa gives him a once over, obviously unimpressed.

"It took Lucius two years to pick out my engagement ring, and I still sent it back four times for stylistic changes."

Harry pales.

"Trust me," Narcissa says reassuringly, "Draco has never expected that kind of diligence from you, Mr. Potter."

Somehow, this doesn't make Harry feel any better.

Twenty minutes later, Harry has a ring. Narcissa, horror as she often is, knows how to get shit done, and Harry is, for once, glad of it. The ring is... Well, stunning. It was a band, of course, because Draco Malfoy would never wear "women's jewelry", regardless of how stunning it was. It was not something Harry would like on his finger. It, like the green sweater, was bound to attract attention. For Draco, though, the ring was perfect. They had bypassed gold altogether- 'I'm afraid it is just impossible to find pure gold at such short notice. Besides, it washes him out completely. He should know better.'-and instead opted for a silver band, the kind that would match the watch draco wore on his left wrist. The sliver was clean and pure and, well, magic. The thing about growing up with muggles is you don't realize that certain things can be magic.

But oh, they can. The silver seems normal at first glance, but when it catches the light; it reminds Harry of liquid mercury, or unicorn blood, or the reflection of the moon in the great lake.

The way the metal moves, writhing and twisting and dancing. It reminds Harry of dancing. Not of the way Harry dances, of course. But the way Draco does. When Draco dances, his feet are accessories, and Harry is quite sure that if they floated away Draco wouldn't miss them. He dances like his feet never touch the ground, only flirt with the proximity of it. In those moments, he isn't just beautiful; He's effervescent. The ring is set with what looks like a million tiny emeralds, scattered through the silver like stars. It's breathtaking. It's show stopping. Harry would never be caught dead in it.

That being said...

"Narcissa, it's gorgeous."

She sniffs, but her stare is significantly softer than usual.

"It'll do, I suppose."

"He'll love it."

She smiles a soft, rare smile at that, and turns to face Harry.

"He will. He loves you. Heaven knows why, Mr. Potter. But he does. It was always you with him."

Harry is shell shocked by her openness.

When Draco had brought him round for tea the first time, it had been rocky, to say the least. Though they meet for tea most Wednesdays now, and Narcissa's comments have lost much of their venom, they aren't close. She's certainly never expressed any kind of approval, and Harry is tempted to believe she is trying to induce an early death to stop his proposal. But there is something in the way she is looking at him- a softness he's never seen her wear- that makes him say what he does next.

"And it has always been him with me, Mrs. Malfoy."

She smiles again, and Harry's head spins with the absurdity of it.

"Now, Mr. Potter." Her expression sombers. "Don't you have a portkey to catch?"

Although he has another twenty minutes to spare, Harry recognizes him dismissal and turns to leave.

"One last thing, Harry."

He turns.

Narcissa's eyes are pleading, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Harry has only seen her like this once before, and the memory takes his breath away. She stares at him, and in that moment he is pressed against the forest floor, soft lips pressed to his ear, a desperate whisper; Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?

"Don't hurt him," she says.

Harry looks at her, wanting to convey all the things he doesn't know how to say. Hoping he is successful.

"I won't."

"Good. Now get out of my house, Potter. I was reading."

Remembering himself, Harry quickly rushes outside, the ring tucked safely in his pocket. Once he's outside the wards that surround the manor, Harry apparates, and is met at the door of Peppermint and Garden Leaves by a flustered- and altogether too smug for his liking- Isa, holding the teapot out to him in impatience.

"You sure don't think ahead, do you Mr. Potter," she chides, shaking her head.

He grins at her sheepishly, taking the teapot.

"That thing leaves in ten minutes, and I was not looking forward to explaining it to that boyfriend of yours if it showed up without you."

"Sorry Isa, it wasn't exactly an easy process."

She smiles at him softly.

"Well? Let's see it!"
He pulls the ring out, and Isa raises a hand to her lips with a sharp intake of breath.

"Harry! It's gorgeous. Wherever did you find a ring like that at such short notice?"

Harry flushes, eyes fixed on the ground.

"His mum, actually."

"That desperate?" Her voice is teasing.

"Mhm."

The Portkey is glowing now, and for a wild second, Harry thinks about dropping it. The fear is flooding his veins, and he wants nothing but to run away- but the world is already spinning- and Isa is calling out to him, "Good luck, Harry!"- and he cannot see the teashop anymore, only colors- and it is too late to turn back.

He lands face down in the grass.

"Charming, Potter."

Harry's heart pounds at the sound of his voice.

"Not my best landing, I'll admit."

Snorting, Draco grabs him by the hand and pulls him to his feet.

Harry looks around.

The meadow is gorgeous, and Harry is immediately struck with the realization that he isn't in England. The air is warmer, and there are flowers he's never seen before, not even at Neville's place. They are surrounded on all sides by mountains. Harry isn't sure, but he thinks he can hear flowing water nearby. A few feet away from where they stand, still holding hands, is a blue picnic blanket, with a large basket set in the middle.

"Where are we?"
Draco huffs, but Harry can see he's pleased.

"France," he muses, a softness seeping into his voice, "near Nice."

Harry stares at him in open wonder. France is special to Draco, and it shows just how much thought he's put into today.

Draco pinks.

"Come on, Potter. Don't act like you've never seen a meadow before. I'm getting hungry."

He guides Harry to the blanket.

Harry watches as Draco begins to unload the picnic basket, smiling fondly at the clear effort in his food choices. First he pulls out champagne, the pink kind that makes Harry think of Ron and Hermione's wedding. Then, two crystal glasses, all wrapped up in cloth. Harry rolls his eyes, imagining Draco's horror if he'd suggested they just sip from the bottle. Next he pulls out a bag of scones, and Harry is sure he can see a chocolate one from Isa's shop. Finally, he pulls out a plate of fruit and a large metal container.

"What's in the container?"

Draco looks at him, a reluctant smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"It truly doesn't match the aesthetic of the meal, Potter."

Laughing, Harry makes a quick lunge for the container, ignoring Draco's squeal of protest as he nearly knocks over the champagne flutes, "Potter those are crystal you great buffoon!"

He ends up stretched across Draco's lap grasping the container with one hand, pulling up the lid with the other. As soon as the smell hits his nose, Harry sits up triumphantly.

"Chicken Marsala!"

Draco sighs, righting the champagne.

"It seemed cruel to keep your favorite food from you on your birthday, and we certainly won't be serving it tonight."

Harry smiles, curling back down to lay beside his lover.

The smell of him overwhelms Harry, and he feels himself relax. This is Draco. His Draco.

He wants to believe they have been together long enough.

He wants to believe he isn't making a mistake.

"What."

Harry starts, turning his head to look at Draco.

"What?"

"Something's bothering you."

Draco props himself up on one elbow, looking down at Harry with concern.

"Is it the food? I knew Hermione was already taking you for tea, but I thought..."

Harry laughs, and Draco looks at him crossly.

"It isn't the food, Draco. It's nothing. I'm just thinking."

With a huff, Draco lays back down.

"Don't think too hard love, you'll hurt yourself."

Harry jabs him in the side, and the blonde let's out a loud, open laugh.

It took Harry years to make him laugh like that, and he takes comfort in how easy it is now.

They lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes, staring up at the clear, blue sky. When Draco sits up and opens the Marsala container, Harry shoots him an amused grin.

"What?" He asks haughtily. "I wasn't kidding when I said I was hungry."

Harry sits up, smirking.

"Nothing, dear. I was simply under the impression that my Marsala didn't match the aesthetic of the meal."
He mimics Draco's posh drawl and it rewarded by the blonde knocking their shoulders together playfully. Harry looks at him, and Draco looks back, cheeks flushed with laughter. He must catch something on Harry's face, because he tilts his head, suddenly pensive. Harry feels his cheeks heat, and busies himself with a chocolate scone. Draco plucks a chunk of chicken from the curry with his thumb and forefinger, and Harry bites back a smirk. My favorite food my arse.

"I see you've worn the green sweater."

The smugness is clear and triumphant, and Harry groans.

"It seems I have. Can't seem to remember why now, though. Feel rather overdressed, given present company."

Draco's mouth drops open in indignation at the slight.

"Please, Potter. I always look fantastic and you know it."

Harry does know it. Draco has grown in to himself since the war; he is less pointy angles than he once was, though he could hardly be considered bulky. His face, tilted towards the sky in pleasure as he relishes a sweet strawberry from the plate beside him, is angular, his aristocratic features frames with hair that curls just below his ears. His shoulders are broader than they were then, toned from long pickup quidditch games with the Slytherin team. His eyes are warm; still cool grey, but thawed, somehow. The sleeves of his auburn jumper are rolled up casually, displaying the mark, still as dark today as the first time Harry had seen it. It doesn't bother him anymore. Above it, raised pink skin; Bellatrix had carved traitor into the crook of his elbow when Draco had failed to identify him at the manor. This scar bothers him, but only because Draco got it protecting him. Looking at the man in front of him, Harry has a hard time connecting him to the terrified boy he'd been that night. Draco is happy here, and it softens his edges like an old photograph. Somehow, at 37, he seems younger than he did at 16. Then, Harry supposes, so does he.

He could say all of this, feels it rush to his lips all at once; but the words catch in his throat at how peaceful Draco is. There are times to talk about scars and about being sixteen. This isn't one of them. Instead he sighs, leaning into Draco's chest in contentment.

"I really love you, you know that."

There is a pause, and Harry knows Draco is wrapping the words through his mind the same way he always does, looking for flaws, for a second shoe that has yet to fall. He doesn't really think it will anymore, Harry thinks. Habit is a funny thing.

"And I really love you, Harry."

It is the softness in his voice that does Harry in. It always is.

"Come here, you."

He twists his head, catching Draco's lips with his own.

Some couples say that every kiss feels like the first, and for their sake Harry hopes they are lying. Don't get me wrong, he thinks, smiling against Draco's lips, our first kiss sure was something. They'd been arguing, and suddenly Harry had needed him to shut up, and suddenly the only way to accomplish that had been to kiss him. It had been like a dam breaking; all the pent of frustration-sexual and otherwise- spilling out into his lover's lips. But it had been messy. They didn't know how to fit their mouths together right, and their noses kept getting in the way. It was, as most first kisses tend to be, awkward as hell. Harry thinks he likes this kiss much better. Now, they have found the perfect way to tilt their heads together, their noses no longer blocking access to each other. This kiss tastes like strawberries; desperation isn't as sweet on the tongue, and Harry likes knowing that he can kiss Draco slow. That this man is not running away from him when he pauses for breath. Draco runs a gentle hand over Harry's back, no longer gripping- no longer afraid he will run away. Harry cups his angular face and rubs gentle circles in his jaw with his thumb. This kiss is slow, and sweet, and perfect. It is a kiss that isn't meant to lead anywhere. A kiss that isn't driven with the fear that it will be the last, the only. It is a kiss simply because they can. Simply because they want to. Draco kisses him like they have all the time in the world. Maybe we can, Harry thinks, a dangerous hope flooding his chest, fingering the ring in his pocket.

When they finally pull away, Draco is giving him that open look again; the one that takes Harry's breath away. Am I going to lose you? Harry can't help but think, looking into his lover's eyes; they crinkle at the corner- laugh lines. They are the thing that surprised Harry the most about Draco. How he can hurt so much but still find a way to laugh. Harry remember, not for the first time, that he needs to thank Parkinson for that someday. His chest clenches with the sudden uncertainty of it all. He thinks this might be the bravest thing he's ever had to do, waltzing into the Forbidden Forest to face Voldemort included.

"Draco?"

The grey eyes are studying him carefully.

"Yes?"
"I need to ask you something."

His voice sounds weird and his hands are clammy and all the sudden he has no idea what he is going to say.

"Yes Harry, that is typically why people phrase things as questions." He sighs indulgently and shoots Harry a lazy grin that sends his heart leaping into his throat and sticking there.

"Go on, then." He nudges Harry, and his touch stings, "Out with it."
Harry needs to move. Suddenly this blanket is suffocating, even in the open air, and he stands up clumsily. Draco lifts one delicate eyebrow.

"Walk. We should- let's walk."

His words are rushed and Harry curses himself, waiting for Draco's snide commentary that never comes. Instead, when he risks a glance at the blonde, he is standing beside him, watching Harry with a quiet kind of curiosity.

"All right then. Do you have any particular destination? There's a river," He says, gesturing to the east, "A little while that way."

Harry nods dumbly, falling into step beside him.

Draco looks over at him. Harry remains silent, paralyzed.

They walk a bit more, the sound of flowing water from before growing ever stronger.

Draco looks over at him. Harry studiously avoids eye contact.

Finally, they run out of path.

The river is beautiful, and Harry tells Draco so.

Draco looks at him again, thoroughly unimpressed.

"Yes Potter, it's lovely. Now, what is the matter?"

Harry looks at him, and wants nothing more than to lie. He wants to make something up and walk back to the blanket and throw the damned ring into the river.

But he won't.

They don't lie to each other.

Harry takes a deep breath. Steadies himself.

"Draco, I am in love with you. And... And I know, I know I've asked you before but I just think, or at least I hope, your answer has changed."

Harry is breathing hard and Draco's eyes are wide and this is a mistake, but fuck it, it's too late to back out now.

Harry sinks to one knee in the muddy grass, fumbling to get the ring out of his pocket.

"Draco. I want to marry you."

There are a few moments of dead, cold silence. The birds die mid song. The river stops rushing, the wind is nothing but a memory. And Draco is staring at him. Harry's knee is getting cold from where the moist grass has soaked through his jeans, and the hand holding the ring outstretched to Draco weighs approximately 200 tons more than it did mere seconds ago. And Harry is sweating. Dear lord, is he sweating. And Draco is silent. His eyes wide open with shock and something else, something Harry doesn't want to name, but that settles heavy in the bottom of his stomach anyway.

"Dra-"

"You're fucking kidding me."

"Um-"

"Fucking Gryffindors."

Harry stills, stunned. And confused. Very, very confused.

"Draco, what-"

Draco shoots him a manic look.

"Fuck the whole lot of you. Fuck Weasley, and Granger, and fuck you in particular, Harry."

Draco shoots him a steely glare, turns on his heel, and walks away.

Panicked and completely thrown, Harry stumbles to his feet, chasing Draco back down the path.

"Draco!"

The blonde is stomping haughtily away, and doesn't turn.

"That interfering bint!" He shouts, throwing his his champagne flute dramatically against a nearby tree. Harry finally manages to catch up, tears pricking his eyes.

"Draco! I'm sorry! Please..." Harry falters. "Don't go."

Draco turns to him, and Harry's heart leaps as the frozen grey orbs seem to momentarily soften.

But then they turn cold and frustrated again, and Draco simply gives Harry a bland smile, a suspicious frown, and a short, perplexing statement through gritted teeth.

"6 o'clock sharp, Potter. Do not be late."

Harry makes to interrupt, but Draco continues.

"Now, if you will excuse me," his tone is dangerous, "I have a Weasel Granger to fry."

And with that, Draco turns on the spot and disappears.

I knew it, Harry thinks after a moment, a thousand dreams crashing in on themselves just as he'd started to believe in them. He looks at the spot where the love of his life stood just moments ago, and at the lunch he'd prepared for them. It was lovely. I should have let it be enough.

With the guilt pressing his chest like a vice, Harry sits at the edge of their blanket, the smell of Marsala making him nauseous as he carefully avoids the shards of glass that was once Draco's favorite champagne flute.

And then he does what he's been meaning to do since the second Draco's eyes shone in anger.

Harry sits on the edge of the blanket and cries.

Harry is most definitely not going to be late to the party, he concludes at 5:15, laying across their bed morosely, because he isn't going. He doesn't really see a reason to, honestly; it isn't as if Draco is particularly pleased with him right now, and Harry very much doubts as to whether attending the party is likely to mend that.

No, he isn't going. He isn't going to go, because Ron will be there; all wide smile and congratulations on the tip of his tongue. And Hermione will be waiting, an 'I told you so' balanced precariously on her lips, waiting to spill at even the slightest indication. They would be well meaning and happy and the thought of telling them made Harry's stomach turn. No, he won't be doing that tonight. And when Draco comes home... If he comes home, Harry will deal with it then.

For now, he is going to lay in bed, eat the very large tub of rocky road ice cream that is in his lap, and practice incendio charms on all of Draco's favorite pictures.

Actually, he probably isn't going to do that last thing. Because he has self control. He knows how to compose himself after a fight. He doesn't run away with things get hard. A shiny picture frame catches Harry's eye, and an annoyingly happy Draco waves out at him, dressed up for the Yule Ball two years prior. Well, Harry thinks, sourly, perhaps one little fire wouldn't be so immature...

The knock on the door a few minutes later startles Harry from his chocolate coma, and he groans, deciding right then and there that whoever it is can bugger right off. He goes back to his ice cream, making sure to drip some onto Draco's pillow. The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

"Go away."

There is no answer, and for one beautiful, glorious moment, Harry thinks the intruder has given up. Then, without warning, his front door is unceremoniously blasted to smithereens. Harry shoots upright, feeling around in the sheets for his wand, an old paranoia flooding him. And honestly, of all the days to be attacked in his bed, it feels ironic that they choose the one where Draco isn't likely to come barging in. Having located his wand, Harry gets off the bed slowly, creeping around to the door.

"Wotcher, Harry!"

At the familiar voice, Harry smiles, instantly relaxing, and swings around the doorframe, coming face to face with a smiling Teddy Lupin.

"You broke my door down!"

Harry thinks he should mind. He doesn't.

Teddy shoots him a toothy grin, and Harry pulls him into a hug. Somehow, the 19 year old seems even bigger than when Harry saw him last. Usually tall and lanky, his recent work in the Amazon must have put on some muscle. Speaking of trips Teddy should be on.

"Teddy! Your here!"

When Teddy only smiles, Harry gives him an accusatory look.

"You ponce!" Harry pokes him in the side. "You said you couldn't make it."

"Yes, well, Draco persuaded me. You know how he is. Even convinced the research department to give me another week!"

The lead in his stomach, momentarily forgotten in the rush of Teddy's arrival, makes itself known again, and a new pang of guilt strikes Harry.

"Yeah, I do."

His tone is sour, and Harry doesn't bother to correct it, instead stalking back into the bedroom. Teddy follows moments later, eyes narrowed. They grow almost comically wide as he takes in the scene in front of him.

"I see you have the rocky road out."

His voice is pointedly casual, and Harry pretends not to notice.

"And?"

Teddy rolls his eyes.

"And rocky road means trouble. What did Draco do? What did you do?"

Harry's expression darkens, but he stays silent. With a huff and a mumble that sounds suspiciously like you asked for it, Teddy plops on the bed in front of Harry. He looks him dead in the eye. For a moment, Harry wonders if Teddy is about to lecture him. It wouldn't be a first, after all. But then he catches sight of the glint in Teddy's eyes, the enlongating of his nose; suddenly Harry knows exactly what's happening, and it isn't a talking to. No this is much, much worse.

"Teddy Lupin don't you dare."

Alas, it is too late, and Teddy Lupin is no longer in front of him. Instead, Harry recoils from the looming, greasy figure of one Severus Snape. Harry groans.

"Mr. Potter, you arrogant toerag."

"I should kill Draco for showing you those memories."

He means it, too. Harry had told them to bond, not to watch harry's most embarrassing childhood moments in a pensive.

"Tell me what's wrong, and I'll change back."

Harry glowers at him stubbornly.

"Not a chance."

With a resigned expression, Teddy begins to remove his shirt. Harry stares at him in open horror.

"TEDDY. What are you doing?"

Teddy looks at him seriously, as if he was assuming a great responsibility.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, godfather."

Harry's stomach flips.

"Teddy... What are you about to do?"

Teddy conceals a smirk.

"You, Harry, are about to see Severus Snape," he pauses for effect, "stark naked."

Harry gasps. He wouldn't.

"Ah, but I will," Teddy says, as if he'd read Harry's mind. Then, with one more sly, treacherous smile, he lifts his shirt completely off, and reaches for the buttons of his trousers. Harry gapes, surprised- or maybe not so much surprised as horrified- that Teddy would go that far. But then, Harry supposes, he shouldn't really be either.

"Merlin, you are just like your mother."

Part of Harry had been hoping the comment would soften Teddy's resolve, but the boy merely smiled, the tips of Snape's long, greasy locks turning bright pink in pleasure. It isn't a good look, and Harry feels a laugh bubbling up in his chest. A laugh that quickly disappears at a dangerous look from Teddy.

"Very clever Harry, but to no avail. Now, let's see if the carpet matches the drapes, shall we?"

When Teddy starts to play with the hem of Snape's underwear, he decides very quickly to give in. Regardless of what happened, nothing could be worth the sight of Severus Snape's penis. If Draco ever did decide to forgive him, Harry reckoned the mere memory alone would be enough to put him off his game for a week.

"Fine, fine!" He says hurredly, panicking at the exposed line of hair leading downward.

Teddy raises one eyebrow, and it reminds Harry just how much time his boyfriend has been left alone to corrupt his godson. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Now? Not so much.

"I asked Draco to marry me."

Teddy opens his mouth in a silent 'o', and this shock is so apparent that the metamorphasis slides clean from his features.

"You did? Today?"

Horror floods his features at Harry's nod.

"Harry. TODAY? Of all the days?"

Harry's confusion must not show on his face, because Teddy looks at him like he knows exactly what he's done wrong. And also, like he's an idiot. He's certainly starting to feel like one.

"Yes today, Ted. But somehow I doubt the answer would have been different tomorrow."

Teddy gives him a hard, long look.

The following laughter is both unwanted and highly insensitive, and Harry throws the tub of ice cream at him. It doesn't shut his godson up, and he rolls around on the bed, face red with mirth.

"Harry! You-" He pauses mid cackle, "didn't!"

Harry ruffles.

"You seemed to think it was a good idea in your letter this morning."

Teddy only laughs harder, tears filling his eyes, as his hairs flows from blue to pink to auburn.

Harry glowers at him.

"It isn't funny Teddy. Things... I might have screwed things up between us."

At the admission, Harry feels the hidden helplessness rush to the surface, and sinks onto his pillow.

"I might have lost him, Ted."

Teddy's laughter fades rapidly, and his hair reverts to it's usual blue. He lays beside Harry, looking up at the ceiling.

"You didn't."
Harry scoffs, hardly reassured by the 19 year olds evaluation of the situation.

"You weren't there, Ted. He was pissed."

"Harry, I'm sure it felt that way, and I'm quite sure he sounded that way, but you'll have to forgive me when I say you aren't the most observant person in the world. What exactly did he say?"

Harry sighs, certainly not in the mood to talk about it, but also decidely not in the mood for a repeat of Teddy's earlier stunt.

"He ran away, first of all. Shattered his favorite champagne flute too, the overdramatic git. And the whole while he was screaming. 'Fuck Gryffindors', 'Fuck Granger, Fuck Weasley, and fuck you in particular, Harry.', then, when I asked him to stay, all he could talk about was this stupid party and how pissed he was at Hermione, which doesn't even make any sense."

Harry stops, breathing hard.

"Doesn't it though?"

Teddy's voice is careful, as if he's trying not to let something slip. Harry turns to him, narrowing his eyes.

"You know something."

Teddy'd face says it all.

Harry knows that face. He's been seeing that face since 2 year old Teddy toddled into his bedroom with black marker on his hands, a twitching eyelid, and asked Harry to please not go into the kitchen. Teddy Lupin was many things- Harry had received a great many owls from Minerva McGonagall detailing how numerous, in fact, these things were (though why she thought they were his fault and not Andromeda's is beyond him)- but a liar is not one of them. At least, never successfully. Harry squints at him.

"You do! You know something you aren't saying. What is it?"

Tedddy's eyes grow wide, and he shakes his head desperately, clenching his lips together.

"Tell me, Teddy. You know you're bollocks at secret keeping."

Teddy shoots him a panicked look.

"Harry I can't! Draco would kill me."

A pause.

"Wait, he was angry at Hermione? What did Hermione do? What did Hermione tell you?"

Harry gives him a strange look, but fills Teddy in on the events of the day. By the end of his retelling, Teddy is practically bouncing, understanding flooding his eyes.

"Teddy. Just tell me."

The boy shakes his head pitifully, looking physically pained.

"Teddy." Harry pouts gently. "It's my birthday."

In any other instance, Teddy would have spilled by now, but he only shakes him head, letting out a whine.

"Harry, I really mean it when I say I can't. Now get ready for the party."

Harry looks at him, unimpressed.

"I'm not going."

Teddy whips around, having been in the process of leaving the bed.

"Oh yes you are, Harry."

His tone is dangerous, and Harry wonders if it's the Auror, the Werewolf, or the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black that makes his eyes so formidable at times like these. It certainly isn't the hufflepuff.

Harry starts to argue, not quite cowed, but Teddy interrupts him.

"Harry. You haven't lost him. I can promise that. But if you miss tonight, you will."

They hold eye contact for a long, silent moment. Harry is tempted to argue. Every fiber of his being is screaming no. He wants to stay in bed and pout and be angry and maybe, just maybe, come to grips with the finality of Draco's rejection. But there is something about Teddy. Maybe it is his eyes; Remus' eyes, dark and thoughtful, and the one part of Teddy's appearance that he never changes. Or maybe it is in the chair he knocked over on his way in; the shattered remnants of his front door; the smile that reminds his so much of Tonks. It is all of these things, at least a little bit.

But it is also because it's Teddy. Teddy, who took his first steps to greet Harry at the door. Teddy, the little boy that used to send him weekly letters from school; about girls and boys and epic pranks he was planning. He taught this boy how to ride a broom. He sent him hufflepuff pride shirts the day after sorting. He spent the summers with him, laughing as he and Draco talked animatly about how much gryffindors suck, and snuck out to get nose rings when Harry was asleep. This boy, this stubborn, quirky, not-quite-punk-enough-to-be-cool boy, is the closest thing Harry has ever had to a son. So he does what he always does; this thing he inherited from his fatehr, that would most likely be the death of him, as it was for James. He gets out of bed, puts on his shoes, and trusts.

"I'm never trusting you again, Teddy."

Harry grimaces, looking around at the packed room. He'd known the party was going to be big, of course. Draco's parties were always big. But this- this was a little extra, even for him. The good thing, Harry supposes, is that, with this many guests, he may very well be able to avoid speaking to the man himself. With that intention in mind, Harry begins to slink into a corner, engaging George Weasley in conversation, and praying he is out of the way enough to miss Draco's notice. NO such luck.

"You're late."

Draco says it in a hesitant, apologetic voice. Harry turns to him.

"I wasn't going to come." He admits.

"I wouldn't have blamed you."

There is a gentle pause as George extracts himself from the corner, in an obvious eagerness to escape the suffocating tension Draco's appearance had created. Harry doesn't blame him. He is, after all, half tempted to follow him.

Then again, they didn't exactly get to where they are by avoiding things, and Harry very much doubts that tact is suddenly going to start working now.

"Harry. Please say something."

Draco's voice is scared and vulnerable, and it makes Harry angry. After all, hadn't Draco been the one who ran away? If this- if they- were over, wasn't this his fault? Suddenly, the guilt abandons him, to be replaced with a stony, white-hot rage.

"What is there to say, Draco?" He spits, hands shaking. "That I'm sorry? Sorry I thought this could work? Sorry I thought you would want this? Sorry I thought you'd be brave enough to want it?"

His breath comes hard, shaking his shoulders, as he stares fiercely into Draco's grey eyes. They are sad and afraid and a piece of Harry is screaming at him to stop, but he can't. Because after everything, after all they'd been through, all Harry wanted was him. The truth of never having him burns a hole in his chest, and the anger slips out of his voice, to be replaced with a hollow bitterness.

"I'm not sorry, Draco. I'll never be sorry for wanting this, for wanting you."

As Harry turns to walk away, Draco reaches for him, voice shaking.

"Harry, you don't unders-"

Harry shoves him away, pushing through the crowd.

"You're right, Draco. I don't understand."

He is heading for the door in a blind rage, suddenly aware that the room is too small. That is he stays in here, with these people, looking at him with love and concern and pity- that if he stays here for another second- he will explode. People reach for him; Teddy, shaking his head in desperation; Hermione, looking over his shoulder guiltily; Ron, a confused panic filling his face and ears with color. Harry brushes them all off, pushing and shoving until he can see the door. He makes a dash for it, no longer caring who sees. He needs out. Just as he reaches the door, a hand reaches out to him again, and Harry shoves it away. That doesn't seem to please his attacker, however, and seconds later Harry finds his feet physically glued to the floor, his wand snatched from his hand by a furious Pansy Parkinson.

"Parkinson, if you don't let me go right now-"

"Oh please, Potter, do try the hero voice on someone who cares. You won't be going anywhere."

She glares at him, thoroughly unimpressed. Harry groans.

"Pansy, you don't even know-"

"I don't even know?"

Pansy snarls.

"Oh, don't I? Why do you think he stayed over last night? So I could gossip about Zabini? Paint our nails? Really Potter, you are thick."

Harry stares at her, dumbly.

"He said you were having a crisis."

Pansy narrows her eyes.

"Potter. Do I seem like the type to have a crisis."

Aware that she has his wand, Harry elects not to answer.

"Exactly. He was having a crisis. I thought it was completely ridiculous, of course. Why on Earth would you say no, when everyone with eyes can see how much you love each other?"

She steps closer, menacingly.

"So why did you say no?"

Harry feels his blood run cold. Parkinson is not someone he wants to piss off. Especially since he doesn't know what he's supposed to have done wrong.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Pansy."

She growls, pressing her wand against his side.

"Don't lie to me, Potter. When my best friend took that ring out of his pocket, got down on one knee, and begged you to marry him, why did you say no?"

Harry's head is spinning.

"Asked me? Draco didn't ask me? I asked him! And he- he said no."

Pansy's mouth drops open in surprise, and her next words are a squeak.

"You what?"

Harry sighs.

"I asked him to marry me, obviously. It didn't go over well, and I just want to leave."

With one last look, Pansy lets him go, and hands him his wand.

"Sometimes," she mutters, "people are just beyond help."

Her words sink in slowly, now that her wand is not pressed against his side.

"Parkinson," he says slowly, "when you said Draco stayed over at yours last night because he was having a crisis..."

She sighs in disbelief.

"If you haven't figured it out by now, Potter, there isn't any hope."

He gapes at her, the dozens of signals he's been given today meshing and spiraling and utterly confusing.

Harry isn't stupid. He understands the words that left Pansy's mouth. They just don't make any sense. If Draco wanted to propose to him, why had he reacted so negatively at lunch? Why didn't he just tell Harry? If Draco was going to propose to him, why had he picked today, after all these years of never bringing it up? If Draco wanted him, why was he letting him leave?

"Because I'm afraid."

It's as if Draco read his mind. He couldn't have- he is on the other side of the room, standing on a table, and he isn't a strong enough legimens to do it from all the way over there. And yet, he continues.

"Because I'm afraid, the man I love is hovering by the door right now. I think-," Draco pauses, inhaling a sharp breath, "I think he may leave me."

The crowd falls into a shocked silence.

"If he does, I will deserve it." He locks eyes with Harry, giving him a small smile.

"You see, I wasn't a Gryffindor. I'm not built for this kind of bravery. I- I don't know how to be brave the way he is. The way he's always been." Another pause as Draco seems to gulp for air. "But I want to be. And that's why I had to be the one who did this."

He looks at Harry, beseechingly.

"Because 6 years ago the man I love asked me if I ever thought about marrying him and I ran away for the better part of a week. It isn't something I'm proud of. I..." He trails off.

"I hurt you, Harry. And I never wanted to do that again. I fucked that up this afternoon, and I know. I just- I wanted to be the brave one, for once. I needed to."

He takes a long, deep breath, and Harry can feel the tears welling on his lower eyelid.

"I want so many things, Harry. So many things I never thought I could have. You... Every morning, waking up beside you; I don't know if it is the way you take up all the room on the bed; or that I always have to disentangle our limbs, the way we fall together so naturally; or the smile you give me when I return with coffee- you make me feel like it could all be possible. Like maybe, after all I've done-" A choked sob. Harry moves toward him without meaning to, drawn. "Like maybe, after all we've been through, I deserve this. We deserve this."

Harry is at the foot of the table now, beside Draco. He could reach out and touch him. He does.

When Draco looks down at him, his eyes are wide with hope and fear, and it makes Harry's stomach soar. Draco steps from the table, coming to stand right in front of him. Harry can see his shoulders shaking.

"Draco-"

Draco smiles at him.

"Please Harry, I'm not quite finished."

Startled, Harry closes his mouth.

"Harry James Potter, you are the biggest git I've ever known. You make my live infinitely more complicated than it needs to be. You eat too much take away curry and always forget which fork to use when we have tea with my Mother. You steal the blankets and ask stupid questions and draw silly faces on the essays I'm grading. You never fold your coats, and you don't shave nearly enough and you award too many house points to Gryffindor, even when they don't deserve it."

He pauses, smiling at Harry in a way that, even after all these years, makes his head spin.

"But you are also the first person I want to tell when something exciting or terrible or even mildly annoying happens. When I get a new book, or Slytherin wins the match, or Alice Longbottom finally passes her potions test. Even when you have no idea what I'm talking about. You are stronger than I am, and far better at these things. And you are so beautiful that sometimes I forget to breathe, even now. And you are the only thing that has ever stayed. When I woke up screaming or clawing at the skin on my left arm- you stayed. When I lash out, or push you away, or fight with Weasley. You stay. When Pansy hexes you into next Tuesday for making me cry. You stay. And maybe staying is in your nature; maybe staying is who you are- but it isn't who I am. Everytime things go downhill, or get uncomfortable, or I start to fall in a little too deep, my first response is to run. But you make me want to stay. You, with your stories at three in the morning and easy going grins over lunch. The way a tiny thing can make your whole face light up. The way I get to be that thing sometimes. Do you want to know the reason I ran away that morning, Harry? Because I was afraid of how easily the answer rose to my lips. How easy it was for me to be completely in love with you. But I am. And I'm not afraid of it anymore."

Harry doesn't remember when he started crying but he is well on his way to being a mess. He reaches for Draco's hand again, and this time, Draco lets him take it. Harry has so much to say, he is bursting with it- but Draco sends him a look that says 'not yet, love. I'm not finished' and so Harry waits. He watches in awe as Draco sides onto one knee in front of him, eyes never leaving Harry's. He fumbles in his pocket for a moment, finally retrieving a gold wedding band and holding it out to Harry on a shaking, outstretched palm.

"Harry, will you marry me?"

The dam inside Harry breaks open, flooding him with euphoria. He pulls Draco up, wrapping his hands around his waist, all the while nodding. Yes. Yes. Yes. YEs. The silence in the room has given way to chaos, but neither of them seems to hear. And they are kissing. It is nothing like the kiss at lunch; that was soft and sweet and slow. This kiss tastes like salt, and they are both crying too hard, their ragged breaths echoing in the space between their lips when they part for air. This kiss is rough and messy and steals the floor out from under Harry's feet. It feels... Well, it feels a little like a first kiss. With a smile, Harry looks down at the ring on his finger, etched in flowing silver It's always been you, and thinks that it is a first kiss of sorts, after all.