Chapter 4: Midnight Blue and Silver Thread
The street outside Twilfitt and Tattings was already crowded by the time Harry arrived, and he'd barely stepped out of the Apparition point before he spotted her. Draco stood by the entrance, arms crossed, platinum hair pulled back in a sleek knot that made her look like she'd stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly. She was wearing deep green robes that matched her eyes and heels that added three inches to her already considerable height.
She looked expensive. She looked dangerous. She looked like she was about to make his life very difficult.
"You're late," she said.
"I'm two minutes early."
"Which means you're late." She uncrossed her arms and reached for him, fingers curling around his wrist. "Come on. We have an appointment."
"An appointment? For robes?"
"For you. Which means it's an emergency."
She dragged him through the doors before he could protest.
The shop was chaos.
Racks upon racks of dress robes lined the walls, organized by color and fabric and Merlin knew what else. A harried-looking wizard in pinstripes was arguing with a customer about the proper length of a formal cloak. Two enchanted measuring tapes were chasing each other through the aisles, and somewhere in the back, a fitting dummy was singing opera.
Draco ignored all of it. She steered Harry through the maze with the ruthless efficiency of someone who'd been shopping here since birth, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a countdown.
"First rule," she said. "No boxy cuts. You have shoulders. We're going to use them."
"I have shoulders?"
"You have very nice shoulders. Don't let it go to your head."
She pulled him to a stop in front of a rack of midnight-blue robes. Her fingers moved through the fabric with practiced ease, discarding one after another.
"Too plain. Too flashy. Too Weasley-adjacent."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means it looks like something Ronald would wear to a funeral. And not in a good way."
She kept moving.
Harry trailed behind, watching her work. There was something hypnotic about the way she shopped. She didn't browse. She hunted. Every robe she touched got evaluated, judged, and either accepted or discarded within seconds. It was like watching a predator stalk prey.
"The green one," she said, pulling it from the rack. "Try it."
"It's green."
"Very observant. Go."
She shoved him toward the fitting rooms, and Harry went, because arguing with Draco when she was in this mood was like arguing with a hurricane. Pointless. Possibly dangerous.
The fitting room was small and cramped, with a mirror that showed him from three angles at once. Harry stripped off his Auror robes and pulled on the green one, fumbling with the buttons.
When he stepped out, Draco was waiting.
She looked at him.
Then she looked some more.
"Absolutely not," she said.
"What? What's wrong?"
"You look like a Slytherin."
"I am wearing green."
"Exactly. Take it off."
"I thought you liked Slytherin."
"I like you. There's a difference." She shoved another robe at him. "Try this one."
They went through six more.
Grey made him look washed out. Burgundy made him look like he was attending a funeral. Black was too formal, brown was too casual, and the one with gold embroidery made Draco laugh so hard she had to sit down.
"Please," she gasped. "Please tell me you can see yourself."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You look like a Christmas ornament."
"It's not that bad."
"It's horrific. Take it off."
He took it off.
By the time she pulled out the midnight-blue set, Harry was ready to give up. His patience had worn thin somewhere between the burgundy funeral and the Christmas ornament disaster. He was hot, tired, and fairly certain the singing dummy in the back was now doing a rendition of "Weasley Is Our King."
But then Draco held up the robes, and he stopped.
Midnight blue. Silver threading. Cut slim through the waist and broad at the shoulders, with a collar that stood up just slightly at the back. It was elegant without being fussy, dramatic without being ridiculous.
"Try it," she said.
He tried it.
The mirror showed him from three angles. Harry turned, and the fabric moved with him, catching the light in a way that made the silver thread shimmer. The blue was dark enough that it almost looked black, but when he moved, it revealed its true color—deep and rich, like the sky just before dawn.
Draco came up behind him. Her reflection joined his in the mirror.
"There," she said.
"There what?"
"That's the one."
He looked at himself. Looked at her. She was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read—something hungry, something possessive, something that made his stomach tighten.
"The color," she said. "It makes your eyes look like cut glass."
"Cut glass?"
"Like someone took a knife to the sky." She reached up and adjusted his collar. Her fingers brushed his neck, and Harry felt the touch all the way down his spine. "You're going to wear this to the gala. And everyone is going to look at you and wonder how Draco Malfoy managed to land the most eligible bachelor in Britain."
"I'm eligible?"
"You're the Chosen One. You're an Auror. You have a scar." She shrugged. "Yes. You're eligible."
"And you landed me?"
"I did."
"And you're not going to let anyone forget it?"
"Absolutely not."
She smoothed her hands down his chest, and Harry caught her wrist.
"How much is it?"
"Does it matter?"
"Draco."
She sighed. "Three hundred Galleons."
"Three hundred—"
"It's Twilfitt and Tattings. What did you expect?"
"I expected not to spend a month's salary on a robe I'll wear once."
"You'll wear it for me." She stepped closer, her body pressing against his, and looked up at him through her lashes. "And I'll remember how you look in it for the rest of my life."
Harry swallowed.
"Fine."
"What was that?"
"I said fine."
She smiled. It was a slow, satisfied smile, the kind that made her look like the cat who'd caught the canary. Actually caught it. Had it in her paws. Was probably going to play with it before she ate it.
"Good boy," she said.
Harry's cock twitched.
He paid for the robes. The shopkeeper—the same pinstriped wizard who'd been arguing earlier—gave them a look when Draco kissed him by the register. It was a kiss that was entirely inappropriate for public. She pressed herself against him, fingers curling into his hair, tongue sliding against his, and Harry forgot where they were. Forgot the shopkeeper. Forgot everyone.
When she finally pulled back, the wizard was staring at them with the expression of someone who'd just swallowed a lemon.
"Something wrong?" Draco asked, sweetly.
The wizard said nothing. He handed over the package with stiff arms and practically shoved them out the door.
Draco laughed all the way down the street.
"You're a menace," Harry said.
"I'm a delight."
"You nearly gave that man an aneurysm."
"He'll survive. He's been giving my mother the same look for twenty years." She tucked her arm through his and steered him down a side street. "Now. One more stop."
"Another stop? Draco, I've already spent—"
"I'm not buying anything for you." She pulled him through a doorway. "This is for me."
The shop was small. Tiny, really—just a single room with wooden shelves and a counter that appeared to be made of polished oak. The air smelled like dust and fresh varnish, and there was a man behind the counter who looked like he'd been there since before Harry was born.
Draco released his arm and approached the counter.
"I have a commission," she said.
The man—wizened, bespectacled, with hands that looked like they'd been carving things for centuries—looked up. "Ah. Miss Malfoy. Your owl arrived last week."
"Perfect. Is it ready?"
"I finished it last night." He reached beneath the counter and brought out a box. It was long and flat, the kind of box you'd use for a portrait or a large frame. "Silver frame. Preservation charm. Inscription as specified."
He opened the box.
The frame was beautiful. It was silver, but not the gaudy silver that Draco's family usually favored—it was softer, subtler, with a brushed finish that caught the light and made it glow. Harry could feel the magic coming off it in waves. Preservation charms weren't cheap. Preservation charms this strong were usually reserved for artifacts.
And on the plaque at the bottom, etched in delicate script:
Property of D. Malfoy
Harry's brain stopped.
"What's that for?" he asked.
Draco smiled. The same smile. Cat. Canary. Doom.
"It's for the jersey."
"What jersey?"
"My jersey." She traced a finger along the plaque. "The one I stole from your dormitory in eighth year. The one I've been wearing for five years. The one that, apparently, belongs to me now."
"You're joking."
"I never joke about you." She closed the box and tucked it under her arm. "I told you, Potter. You're mine. And I'm going to wake up every morning and look at your name above my bed."
Harry stared at her.
"You're insane."
"Possibly."
"That's... that's not normal."
"I never claimed to be normal." She stepped closer, her body brushing against his. "I claimed to be yours. There's a difference."
He couldn't argue with that.
He wanted to. He wanted to say something about how this was unhealthy, how this was obsessive, how this was exactly the kind of thing that resulted in St. Mungo's and restraining orders and very awkward conversations with Auror colleagues.
But he couldn't.
Because the truth was, he liked it.
He liked that she was possessive. He liked that she'd kept his jersey for five years. He liked that she was going to frame it and hang it above her bed like a trophy.
It was insane. It was unhealthy. It was exactly the kind of relationship his Healer would have a field day with.
He didn't care.
"I love you," he said.
Draco's expression flickered. The smirk faded, replaced by something softer. Something vulnerable.
"I love you too," she said. "You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Good." She reached up and touched his face. Her fingers were gentle, careful. "Now stop being sentimental. We have errands."
"You just said—"
"I said I love you. I didn't say I wanted to talk about it." She pulled away and straightened her robes. "Now we need to find you shoes."
"Shoes?"
"You didn't think you were wearing those, did you?" She gestured vaguely at his boots. "Auror issue. Practical, but hardly appropriate for a ball."
"They're comfortable."
"They're terrible." She took his hand and pulled him toward the door. "Come on. One more stop."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No," he admitted. "I don't."
---
Three hours later, Harry stood in Draco's flat with feet that ached in their new dress shoes and a head that was spinning from the sheer volume of shopping they'd done. Robes. Shoes. A tie pin that cost more than his first broomstick. A set of cufflinks shaped like tiny Snitches.
"You're trying to bankrupt me," he said.
"I'm trying to make you presentable." Draco emerged from the bedroom in nothing but his jersey and a pair of silk knickers. "There's a difference."
Harry forgot how to breathe.
She crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside him, tucking her legs under her body. The jersey was swimming on her, the sleeves bunched and the hem falling to her thighs, and Harry could see the number 7 framed by the fabric.
"It's going to look good," she said. "The frame."
"It's going to look insane."
"I know." She smirked. "I'm looking forward to it."
He reached over and pulled her into his lap. She went willingly, her body molding against his, and he buried his face in her hair.
"You're a lot, Draco."
"I know."
"Like, a lot a lot."
"I'm aware."
"I'm not going to survive you."
She lifted her head and looked at him. Those gray eyes were soft, almost gentle, and Harry felt something crack open in his chest.
"You're not supposed to survive me," she said. "You're supposed to live with me. There's a difference."
"I thought there was a difference between loving you and knowing you love me."
"There is. This is another one."
He kissed her. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that didn't need words, because words were inadequate anyway. She made a small sound against his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck.
When they broke apart, she was smiling.
"So," she said. "The gala."
"Next weekend."
"Are you nervous?"
"Should I be?"
She considered. "My mother will probably try to hex you."
"Probably?"
"She's been very stressed about my marital prospects."
"I'm not going to let her hex me."
"No, you're not." She ran a finger down his chest. "Because you're the Chosen One. And if anyone can handle Narcissa Malfoy, it's you."
"Flattering."
"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to prepare you." She kissed his chin. "She's going to interrogate you. She's going to ask about your family, your finances, your intentions. She's going to be cold and polite and utterly terrifying."
"Sounds like you."
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."
"But you know I'm right."
She sighed. "I know you're right."
"Does she know? About us?"
"They will soon." She settled back against him. "I sent her an owl this morning. Told her I was bringing someone to the gala. Someone important."
"What did she say?"
"I don't know. I haven't read her reply." She gestured vaguely. "It's probably on fire somewhere."
"You're joking."
"Partially." She yawned. "I'll read it tomorrow. Tonight, I'm busy."
"Busy doing what?"
She looked up at him. The smirk was back. The hunger was back.
"Riding you," she said. "Unless you have objections."
Harry didn't have objections.
Not a single one.
The jersey came off. His clothes came off. And for the next several hours, Harry forgot about gala invitations and interrogation and Narcissa Malfoy's likely-assassination attempts on his person.
There was only Draco. Her hair spilling across his chest. Her breath hot against his neck. Her voice whispering his name like a prayer.
And after, when they lay tangled together on her couch, the frame still in its box on the coffee table, Harry looked at her sleeping face and thought about the word he'd used earlier.
Mine.
She was his. He was hers. And whatever happened next—whatever mess came with the gala, whatever schemes Narcissa had planned, whatever drama Ron and Hermione and the rest of the world brought to their doorstep—he wasn't going to let it tear them apart.
He'd spent too long fighting. Too long losing. Too long pretending he didn't want this, that he didn't need it, that he was fine on his own.
He wasn't fine on his own.
He was better with her.
She shifted in her sleep, murmuring something, and Harry pulled her closer. The box on the coffee table caught the moonlight, and he could just make out the etched letters on the plaque.
Property of D. Malfoy.
He should have hated it. Any sane man would have hated it—the claiming, the possessiveness, the way she'd turned his own jersey into a trophy.
But all he felt was warm.
She was his.
And he was never going to let her go.
The week passed in a blur of paperwork and stakeouts and one very awkward encounter with Hermione in the Ministry lift.
She'd cornered him between the fourth and second floors, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "Ron told me," she'd said. "About Malfoy."
Harry had braced himself for a lecture. Instead, Hermione had sighed and said, "I always wondered why she kept looking at you during eighth year. Now it makes sense."
Then she'd stepped out of the lift and left him standing there, mouth open, wondering when his life had become this strange.
Now it was Saturday night. Gala night. And Harry was standing in front of the mirror in Draco's bedroom, adjusting the midnight-blue robes she'd picked out for him, trying not to think about the small velvet box hidden in his pocket.
He hadn't planned to buy it.
He'd gone to Diagon Alley for a new quill, of all things. His old one had snapped during a raid, and he needed a replacement before Monday. Simple errand. In and out.
But then he'd walked past the jeweler's.
And he'd stopped.
The ring in the window was simple. Elegant. A single diamond set in a platinum band, flanked by two tiny sapphires that caught the light like drops of frozen sky. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't ostentatious. It was exactly the kind of ring Draco would have chosen for herself if she'd ever admit to wanting one.
Harry had stood there for ten minutes, staring at it.
Then he'd walked inside and bought it.
The jeweler had asked if he wanted it engraved. Harry had said yes. And now, three days later, the ring sat in his pocket with an inscription he'd agonized over for hours.
For the jersey. And everything after.
It was stupid. It was sentimental. It was exactly the kind of thing she'd mock him for.
He didn't care.
"Potter." Draco's voice drifted from the bathroom. "If you're having second thoughts about the robes, I swear to Merlin—"
"I'm not having second thoughts."
"Good. Because we're going to be late."
She emerged from the bathroom, and Harry's brain stopped working.
The dress was silver. Deep, liquid silver that moved like mercury when she walked, hugging her body in ways that made his mouth go dry. It was backless. Strapless. The kind of dress that existed solely to torment him.
Her hair was down. Platinum waves cascading over her shoulders, and he could see the faint shimmer of Sleekeazy's on the ends. She'd done something to her eyes, too—darkened them, made them look bigger, more striking.
She looked like a goddess.
She looked like she was going to ruin him.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're—" He swallowed. "You're wearing that."
"I'm aware."
"Out in public."
"That's typically how galas work."
"You're going to kill someone."
"Probably." She crossed the room and adjusted his collar. "My mother, hopefully. But we'll see."
Harry caught her wrist. Pulled her close. She came willingly, her body pressing against his, and he could smell her perfume—something floral and sharp, like jasmine and lightning.
"I love you," he said.
She blinked. "That's sudden."
"I know."
"We're going to be late."
"I know."
"You're ruining my makeup."
"I know."
She kissed him. Quick. Hard. Then she pulled back and wiped a smudge of lipstick from his mouth with her thumb.
"Later," she said. "We can do this later. Right now, we have a gala to attend and a mother to horrify."
"Right." Harry released her. "The horrifying."
"The horrifying." She picked up her clutch and headed for the door. "Come on. The Apparition point is two blocks over."
---
The gala was held at Malfoy Manor.
Harry had known this, of course. Draco had mentioned it twice, maybe three times, with a casualness that didn't quite hide the tension in her voice. The Sacred Twenty-Eight didn't rent venues. They used their own estates. And since Narcissa Malfoy was the current head of the family—Lucius having died in Azkaban three years prior—the honor of hosting fell to her.
Harry had never been to Malfoy Manor.
The last time he'd been anywhere near it, he'd been a prisoner in its dungeons. He'd heard Hermione scream under Bellatrix's wand. He'd seen Dobby die on its lawn.
The memories surged as they Apparated to the gates, and Harry had to force them down. This wasn't then. This was now. And the woman walking beside him, her hand tucked into his elbow, was not her aunt.
"You're tense," Draco said.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"I'm fine."
She stopped walking. Turned to face him, her silver dress catching the moonlight, and for a moment she looked like something from another world.
"I know what happened here," she said. "I know what my family did to you. To your friends. I'm not asking you to forget it."
"Draco—"
"I'm asking you to trust me." She reached up and touched his face. "Trust that I'm not them. Trust that this—" she gestured at the manor, the gates, the whole sprawling estate— "is not who I am."
"I know who you are."
"Then act like it."
Harry took a breath. Let it out. Let the memories settle, not gone but acknowledged, and nodded.
"Let's go horrify your mother."
Draco smirked. "That's the spirit."
---
The manor was packed.
Pureblood families from across Britain had turned out in force, all silks and diamonds and careful smiles. Harry recognized faces from the Prophet—the Greengrasses, the Zabinis, the Parkinsons, the Bulstrodes. They all looked at him like he was a bomb about to go off.
He didn't blame them.
He was, technically, the man who'd killed their Dark Lord.
Narcissa Malfoy stood at the center of the ballroom like a spider in her web.
She was elegant. Cold. Her blonde hair—the same shade as Draco's—was pulled back in a severe knot, and her dress was black, high-necked, severe. She looked like she'd been carved from ice and dressed in mourning.
She spotted them the moment they entered.
"Draco," she said, voice carrying across the room like a blade. "You're late."
"Fashionably so." Draco released Harry's arm and crossed to her mother, air-kissing both cheeks. "Mother, this is—"
"I know who he is." Narcissa's eyes fixed on Harry, and he felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing. "Mr. Potter. What a... surprise."
"Mrs. Malfoy." Harry inclined his head. "Thank you for having me."
"I didn't have you. My daughter invited you." She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "But I'm sure we'll make the best of it."
The tension was thick enough to cut.
Draco stepped back and took Harry's hand. "We're going to get drinks," she said. "Mother, I trust you'll behave."
"I always behave, darling. It's everyone else who disappoints."
Draco pulled Harry away before he could respond.
"That went well," she muttered.
"That was a disaster."
"That was foreplay." She steered him toward the bar. "My mother doesn't do polite. She does devastating. If she'd really hated you, you'd know."
"How?"
"She'd have hexed you already."
"Comforting."
"I aim to please."
They got drinks. Firewhisky for him, champagne for her. The ballroom swirled around them in a haze of gold light and expensive perfume, and Harry felt like he was drowning in it.
People stared. People whispered. He heard his name, her name, the word "scandal" more times than he could count.
He ignored them all.
"Ron and Hermione are here," Draco said, nodding toward the far end of the room. "Should we go say hello?"
Harry followed her gaze. Ron was standing by the refreshment table, looking profoundly uncomfortable in formal robes. Hermione was beside him, elegant in deep purple, and she caught Harry's eye and raised an eyebrow.
"Sure," he said. "Let's do it."
They crossed the room together, and Harry felt the stares follow them like a physical weight. He held Draco's hand tighter.
"Mate," Ron said, when they reached him. "You look... wow."
"He means you look good," Hermione said. "Hello, Draco."
"Granger." Draco nodded. "Weasley. You clean up well."
"Thanks?" Ron looked at Harry, then at Draco, then back at Harry. "So this is... happening."
"This is happening."
"Right." Ron cleared his throat. "Well. I'm trying. I said I'd try."
"I appreciate that."
"Trying is all anyone can ask," Draco said, and there was something almost gentle in her voice. "Thank you, Weasley."
Ron looked like she'd just complimented his Quidditch skills. "Did you just thank me?"
"I did. Don't make me repeat it."
"Right. I'll just... drink." Ron grabbed a glass of something from a passing tray and downed it in one gulp.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We're happy for you both," she said. "Truly."
"Thank you, Hermione," Harry said.
"Just don't let her mother poison you."
"She'd have to catch me first."
"Famous last words, Potter," Draco muttered.
They circulated. They made small talk. Harry shook hands with people he'd only ever seen in the Prophet, and Draco charmed and deflected and occasionally made cutting remarks that went over everyone's heads. She was brilliant at this. The perfect pureblood heiress, polished and poised and utterly in control.
But Harry noticed the way her hand trembled slightly when she touched his arm. The way she kept glancing at him, like she was checking he was still there. The way her smile softened whenever their eyes met.
This was hard for her.
Not the gala. Not the pureblood politics. Him. Being here with him, in front of everyone she'd ever known, knowing that none of them approved.
She was choosing him anyway.
And Harry felt something settle in his chest. Something warm and certain and terrifying.
He reached into his pocket and touched the velvet box.
Not yet.
But soon.
---
The gala stretched on.
Dancing. More drinks. A string quartet playing something mournful and elegant. Harry stood by the windows with Draco, watching the moon rise over the gardens, and felt the champagne loosen something in his chest.
"We should do this more often," he said.
"Attend pretentious parties full of people who hate us?"
"You know what I mean."
Draco leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder. "I do know. And yes, we should."
"Your mother hasn't tried to hex me yet."
"The night is young."
"Optimist."
"Realist." She looked up at him. "You've been fidgeting all night. What's in your pocket?"
Harry's heart stuttered. "What?"
"Your pocket. You keep touching it. That's either a weapon or something you're nervous about." She raised an eyebrow. "Which is it?"
"I'm not nervous."
"You're always nervous. That's part of your charm."
"I don't have charm."
"You have something." She reached for his pocket, and Harry caught her hand.
"Not yet," he said.
"Not yet?"
"Not yet."
She looked at him. Really looked. And something in her expression shifted, from curiosity to understanding to something softer, something almost afraid.
"Harry," she said. "What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying. I'm just..." He swallowed. "Not telling you yet."
Draco was quiet for a long moment. The music swelled. The party swirled. And she stood there in her silver dress, staring at him like he'd just handed her the world.
"I hate surprises," she said.
"I know."
"Then why are you—"
"Because this one's important."
She didn't have an answer for that.
They stood together by the window, and Harry felt the weight of the box in his pocket like a brand. He could wait. He could be patient. He could do this properly, at the right moment, when the time was perfect.
But when was the time ever perfect?
Draco had spent five years waiting for him. Five years wearing his jersey, dreaming about him, loving him from a distance. She'd been patient. She'd been brave. She'd stood up to her mother, her family, the whole fucking world.
She deserved more than waiting.
She deserved everything.
"Draco," he said.
"What?"
"Look at me."
She looked.
Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the box. Her eyes went wide, and he heard her breath catch, and around them the party continued on, oblivious, the string quartet playing something sweet and hopeful.
"This isn't how I planned to do this," he said. "I had this whole thing set up. A speech. A perfect moment. But you're here, and you're looking at me like that, and I can't—"
"Harry—"
"I bought this on Tuesday." He opened the box. The ring glittered in the light, the sapphires catching the moonlight, the diamond blazing. "I walked past the shop and I saw it and I thought, that's hers. That's meant for her. And I bought it. Just like that."
Draco was staring at the ring. Her hands had come up to cover her mouth.
"I know this is fast," Harry said. "I know we've only been together for a minute. But I've known you my whole life, and I've loved you for—I don't even know how long. Since school. Since the war. Since I found you wearing my jersey in that changing room and realized I could never let you go."
"You're proposing," she whispered. "In front of everyone."
"I'm proposing." He dropped to one knee. The floor was marble, cold against his knee, and he didn't care. "Draco Malfoy, will you—"
"Yes."
"You didn't let me finish."
"You went to one knee. The answer is yes." She grabbed his face with both hands, and she was crying, actually crying, tears streaming down her cheeks and ruining her perfect makeup. "You absolute idiot. Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes."
Harry laughed. Or cried. Maybe both.
He slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
She kissed him. Right there, in the middle of the ballroom, with the string quartet playing and everyone watching and her mother probably having a stroke six feet away. She kissed him like she was drowning, and he was air.
When they finally broke apart, the entire room was staring.
Narcissa Malfoy's face was a mask of ice. Ron was grinning like a lunatic. Hermione was crying, which made Harry want to cry again, and there was a smattering of applause from somewhere in the back—probably Zabini, who'd always liked a good drama.
Draco pulled back and looked at him. Her eyes were red, her face was flushed, and she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"You love me," she said.
"Obviously."
"You proposed."
"I did."
"In front of my mother."
"I wanted her to see."
Draco laughed. The sound was broken and wet and utterly joyful.
"You're perfect," she said. "You're a nightmare. You're perfect."
"I'm yours."
"You're mine." She kissed him again, softer this time. "And I'm yours. Forever."
Harry believed her.
The gala continued. The music played on. Narcissa Malfoy watched them with an expression that could curdle milk, and Draco watched her mother right back with a smile that could cut glass.
Harry didn't care about any of it.
He was engaged to Draco Malfoy. The woman who'd worn his jersey for five years. The woman who'd stolen his heart and never given it back.
The woman who was now his.
Forever.
He pulled her close, right there in the middle of the ballroom, and she came willingly. The ring on her finger caught the light, and Harry felt something settle in his chest—something warm and certain and right.
He was never going to let her go.
And now, neither would she.