Chapter 5: The Ring and the Ruin
The applause rang in Harry's ears like a battle cry.
He was still holding Draco's hand, still feeling the weight of the ring on her finger, still tasting her kiss when Narcissa Malfoy began her approach. She moved through the crowd like a shark through still water, parting bodies without touching them, her champagne flute held at precisely the correct angle, her smile frozen at precisely the correct temperature.
Draco's grip tightened. "Here we go."
"Let her come."
"Harry—"
"I've faced worse."
Narcissa stopped three feet away. Close enough to be intimate. Far enough to signal contempt. She looked at their joined hands, then at the ring, then at Harry's face. Her expression didn't change. That was the terrifying thing. It didn't change at all.
"Congratulations," she said. The word came out like a curse. "What a... delightful surprise."
"Mother," Draco said, voice carefully neutral, "you remember Harry."
"I remember everything, darling. That's my burden." Narcissa took a sip of champagne. Her eyes never left Harry's. "May I borrow your fiancé for a moment? I believe we have things to discuss."
Draco looked at Harry. He nodded.
"I'll be right here," she said. It wasn't a reassurance. It was a warning.
Narcissa turned and walked toward the edge of the ballroom, not checking to see if Harry followed. He did, because he wasn't a coward, and because he wanted to hear what she had to say.
She stopped beneath one of the massive chandeliers, where the music was quieter and the shadows were longer. When she turned to face him, the mask slipped—just a fraction, just enough for him to see the fury beneath.
"You think you've won," she said.
"I don't think in those terms."
"No, you wouldn't. You're too noble for that, aren't you? The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The savior of the wizarding world." She smiled. It was the same smile Draco used when she was about to destroy someone. "But you're still a half-blood, Mr. Potter. Your mother was Muggle-born. Your father was a bully. Your godfather was a murderer. Your blood is mud, and it always will be."
Harry didn't flinch.
He'd heard worse. He'd heard Voldemort scream his name. He'd heard Bellatrix laugh while Hermione screamed. He'd heard the Dursleys call him freak and boy and waste of space for seventeen years.
Narcissa Malfoy's insults were nothing. Less than nothing.
"You're right," he said.
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're right about my blood. It's mud. Mixed. Dirty." He stepped closer, close enough to smell her perfume—something expensive and cold, like frozen flowers. "You're right about my mother. She was Muggle-born. And she died protecting me from your master. You're right about my father—he was a bully, and he grew up, and he died fighting. You're right about Sirius—he was a murderer, according to the Ministry, until they realized they'd made a mistake."
Narcissa's smile flickered.
"But none of that matters," Harry said. "Because the only name that matters now is the one on your daughter's finger. The name she chose. The name she's going to carry for the rest of her life."
He held up his left hand. The ring caught the light—the sapphires, the diamond, the platinum band etched with words Narcissa couldn't see.
"Potter," he said. "That's the name she wants. Not Malfoy. Not Black. Potter. And there's nothing you can do about it."
For a heartbeat, Narcissa's composure cracked.
Just a heartbeat.
Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. Her hand tightened on the champagne flute until Harry thought it might shatter.
Then the mask slid back into place. She smiled—that cold spider smile—and inclined her head.
"Then I suppose we'll have to see how long it lasts," she said.
"Draco."
The voice came from behind him. Harry turned, and there she was—his fiancée, his future, his everything—standing with her hand extended.
"Come on," she said. "We're leaving."
"We just got here."
"We're leaving." She took his hand and pulled him away. Narcissa didn't try to stop them. She just stood there beneath the chandelier, watching them go, her champagne flute still raised.
Draco led him through the crowd. Past Ron and Hermione, who looked confused. Past Zabini, who looked amused. Past a dozen pureblood witches and wizards who stared at them with expressions ranging from horror to delight.
She didn't stop until they were through a side door and into a corridor.
The corridor was dark. Paneled walls. Faded portraits. The smell of dust and old magic. Draco pulled him along at a pace that was almost a run, her heels clicking against the stone floor like gunshots.
"Where are we going?"
"Away."
"Draco—"
"Just trust me."
He trusted her.
She led him through a maze of passages, turning left, then right, then left again. The manor was enormous—Harry had forgotten how enormous—and every corner looked the same. Dark wood. Dusty carpets. Portraits that watched them pass with painted eyes.
Finally, she stopped in front of a door.
"This is it," she said.
"This is what?"
"The trophy room." She pushed open the door. "Where my family keeps all the things they're proud of."
The room was massive.
Glass cases lined the walls, filled with golden trophies and silver plates and crystal goblets. Banners hung from the ceiling, emblazoned with the Malfoy crest. And everywhere—everywhere—there were portraits.
Generations of Malfoys stared down from the walls. Wizards in velvet robes. Witches in pearls. All of them with the same platinum hair, the same gray eyes, the same expressions of cold disapproval.
They started muttering the moment Harry walked in.
"Potter?"
"The Potter boy?"
"Here? In our home?"
"Draco, what is the meaning of this?"
Draco didn't answer. She locked the door.
The click of the lock echoed through the room like a thunderclap. The portraits fell silent. Harry felt their painted eyes on him—hundreds of them—watching, judging, hating.
Draco turned to face him.
Her chest was rising and falling. Her eyes were bright—too bright. Her hands were shaking.
"Five years," she said.
"What?"
"Five years I've been wearing your jersey. Five years I've been dreaming about you. Five years I've been loving you from a distance, watching you, wanting you, hating myself for wanting you."
She stepped closer.
"And tonight, you proposed to me in front of the entire pureblood elite. In front of my mother. In front of everyone who ever told me you were beneath me."
"Draco—"
"You stood there and you told my mother that my name is yours now. That I'm yours. That nothing she says matters."
"I meant it."
"I know you meant it." Her voice cracked. "That's the problem."
She shoved him against the wall.
Harry's back hit the wood paneling hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Before he could recover, Draco was on her knees.
The portraits gasped.
"Draco—"
"Shut up."
She reached for his robes. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons—shaking, unsteady—and Harry heard himself make a sound that was half laugh, half moan.
"You're nervous," he said.
"I'm not nervous."
"Your hands are shaking."
"I'm excited." She yanked the robes open. "There's a difference."
His cock was already hard—had been hard since the proposal, since the kiss, since the moment she'd looked at him with tears in her eyes and said yes. It sprang free, thick and heavy, and Draco made a sound like she'd been punched.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"What?"
"You're so—" She wrapped her hand around him. "Every time. Every fucking time."
"Draco, the portraits—"
"Let them watch."
She leaned forward and took him in her mouth.
Harry's head slammed back against the wall. The portraits were screaming now—outraged, horrified, scandalized—but he could barely hear them over the roar of blood in his ears.
Draco's mouth was hot. Wet. Perfect. She took him deep, deeper than she ever had before, until he felt the back of her throat and had to bite his lip to keep from coming right there.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, Draco—"
She pulled back. Spit glistened on her lips. Her eyes were wild.
"I love you," she said. "I love you so much it scares me."
"I know."
"I'm going to marry you."
"I know."
"I'm going to be yours forever."
"You're already mine."
She took him again. Harder this time, her hand working the base of his cock while her mouth worked the tip. The portraits were in an uproar—Harry heard something about "disgrace" and "blood traitor" and "what would Lucius think"—but he didn't care.
He fisted his hand in her hair and fucked her mouth.
"You're mine," he growled. "You chose me. Over all of this. Over your family. Over your name. You chose me."
Draco moaned around his cock.
"You're going to wear my ring. You're going to have my name. You're going to be mine until the day you die."
She pulled back, gasping. Spit dripped from her chin. Tears streaked her cheeks.
"Yes," she said. "Yes. Yes. Yes."
Harry hauled her to her feet.
She stumbled, off-balance, and he caught her by the waist. The silver dress was ruined—creased, stained, hiked up around her thighs. She'd never looked more beautiful.
"Bend over," he said.
"What?"
"Bend over the trophy case."
She looked at him. Then at the glass case behind her, filled with golden trophies. Then at the portraits, who had gone eerily silent.
"You're serious," she said.
"Dead serious."
"Harry—"
"I want them to see. I want all of them to see."
Something flickered in her eyes. Fear. Excitement. Love.
She turned and bent over the case.
The glass was cold against her palms. The trophies rattled. And behind her, Harry stepped forward and pushed up her dress.
She wasn't wearing knickers.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"I planned ahead."
"You—"
"Shut up and fuck me."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He grabbed her hips and slammed into her.
Draco screamed.
The sound echoed off the walls, off the glass, off the portraits. Harry heard ancestors gasping, heard someone shouting about "the indignity," heard a witch in a high-collared gown say "I told you she was trouble."
He didn't care.
He fucked her hard. Rough. The way she liked it. The way she'd begged for it in the changing rooms three weeks ago, when she'd dropped to her knees and offered herself to him.
"You're mine," he growled.
She was gripping the edge of the case, her knuckles white, her body rocking with every thrust. The trophies rattled. The glass creaked. And somewhere in the distance, Harry heard the faint strains of the gala music still playing.
"Say it," he demanded.
"I'm yours."
"Louder."
"I'm yours!"
"Louder."
"I'M YOURS!"
Her voice cracked on the last word. Harry felt her tighten around him, felt her legs start to shake, and knew she was close.
He reached around and found her clit.
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock. Let them hear."
She came screaming his name.
The sound was deafening. It bounced off the walls, off the ceiling, off the portraits, and Harry heard the gala music falter—heard the distant murmur of voices, heard someone ask "what was that?"
He didn't stop.
He kept fucking her through the orgasm, through the aftershocks, through the way her body went limp and pliant beneath him. He was close—so close—and he wanted to make it last, wanted to stay inside her forever.
But he couldn't.
She was too tight. Too wet. Too perfect.
"I'm going to come," he said.
"Do it."
"Inside?"
"Inside. I want to feel it."
He buried himself to the hilt and came.
The world went white. The portraits went silent. And for one perfect moment, there was nothing but Draco—her body, her heat, her heartbeat—and the feeling of spilling inside her, of claiming her, of making her his in the most primal way possible.
When he finally pulled out, his legs were shaking.
Draco stayed bent over the case. Her dress was hiked up. His come was dripping down her thighs. And the portraits—every single one—were staring at her with expressions of horror and disgust.
She looked up.
"Let them hear," she said, echoing his words. "Let all of them hear."
Harry laughed.
He reached down and helped her to her feet. She was unsteady—sweaty, flushed, ruined—and he caught her as she stumbled into his arms.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
"That was insane."
"I know."
"I'm probably disinherited."
"Probably."
"My mother is going to kill me."
"Let her try."
Draco laughed. The sound was wet and broken and utterly joyful.
"We should do this more often," she said. "Public proposals. Public sex. Public disgracing of ancient family names."
"Your ancestors are going to haunt us."
"Let them."
He kissed her. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with love.
When they broke apart, she was smiling.
"Take me home," she said.
"Your flat or mine?"
"Ours."
Harry's heart stuttered. "Ours?"
"You proposed. I said yes. That means we live together." She raised an eyebrow. "Unless you have objections."
"No objections."
"Good." She straightened her dress as best she could. "Let's go. I need a shower. And food. And possibly a healer."
"A healer?"
"You fucked me against a trophy case. I'm going to be sore tomorrow."
"Sorry."
"You're not sorry."
"I'm not sorry."
She kissed him again. Quick. Hard. Then she took his hand and led him to the door.
The portraits watched them go.
Some were still muttering. Some were outraged. But one—an old wizard with kind eyes and a crooked smile, the only one who hadn't spoken—watched them with something that might have been approval.
Harry caught his eye.
The old wizard winked.
Then the door closed, and they were gone.
---
They didn't make it to the bedroom.
They made it to the fireplace in the entrance hall, where Draco pulled him through the Floo and into her flat—their flat—and then they made it to the floor, because her legs gave out and Harry was too busy kissing her to catch her properly.
"I'm fine," she said, when he tried to apologize. "Just—give me a minute."
Harry gave her a minute.
Two minutes.
Then he picked her up and carried her to bed.
They made love twice more that night. The first time was slow—gentle, almost reverent. She lay beneath him, her hair spread across the pillow, and he traced the lines of her face with his fingers and whispered things he'd never told anyone.
The second time was harder. She rode him until they were both shouting, and when she finally collapsed on his chest, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
"I can't believe you proposed," she said, into his neck.
"I can't believe you said yes."
"I've been waiting five years for you to ask."
"I've been an idiot for five years."
"At least you know."
He laughed. It was a soft sound, barely a breath, but it felt like a release. Like all the tension of the past weeks had finally found its way out of him.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"Now we sleep."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow we deal with my mother. And the wedding. And the press." She yawned. "But tonight? Tonight we're just us."
Harry liked the sound of that.
He held her until her breathing slowed. Until the room went dark. Until the only sound was the rain against the windows and the soft rhythm of her heart.
And when he finally slept, he dreamed of nothing at all.
---
Morning came like a slap.
Harry woke to sunlight in his eyes and a kink in his neck and the distinct smell of smoke.
He sat up. Draco was still asleep beside him, her platinum hair spread across the pillow in a tangle, and she looked so peaceful that Harry almost didn't want to wake her.
But the smoke was getting stronger.
He got out of bed and crossed to the window. The sky outside was gray. Normal. No fire. No danger.
Then he heard it—the pounding from the hallway outside the flat. And the voices.
"Draco Malfoy! Harry Potter! We know you're in there!"
Harry closed his eyes.
"Fuck."
The press had found them.
The press had found them.
Harry stood at the window in Draco's bedroom—their bedroom, he corrected himself, because she'd said ours and meant it—and watched the cluster of journalists and photographers jostling for position in the corridor outside. The building's anti-Apparition wards shimmered faintly in the morning light, keeping them contained but not deterred. Someone had already set up a Quick-Quotes Quill that was hovering near the ceiling, scribbling notes on everything it could see.
"Draco." He reached back and shook her shoulder. "Wake up."
She mumbled something into the pillow. Something that sounded like "five more minutes" and "fuck off."
"We have a problem."
That got her attention. She rolled over, blinking, her hair a disaster and her eyes still half-closed. The ring on her finger caught the light—sapphires blazing, diamond flashing—and Harry felt that same surge of warmth he'd felt last night when she'd said yes.
"What kind of problem?" she asked.
"The press kind."
She was on her feet in seconds.
She crossed to the window and peered through the curtain, and Harry watched her expression shift from sleepy to sharp to furious in the span of a heartbeat. The silver dress from last night was still on the floor where he'd peeled it off her. She was wearing nothing but his jersey—the jersey, the one she'd stolen five years ago—and somehow that made the situation feel even more absurd.
"Fuck," she said.
"Yeah."
"How did they find us?"
"Someone at the gala talked. Probably your mother."
"My mother doesn't talk to the press."
"She doesn't have to. She just has to look at someone the right way and they run to the Prophet."
Draco's jaw tightened. "I'm going to kill her."
"Get in line."
The knocking intensified. Someone was shouting now—a woman's voice, high and piercing, demanding to know if the engagement was real. Another voice, male and gravelly, wanted a comment on Narcissa Malfoy's alleged reaction to the news.
Harry rubbed his face. He needed coffee. He needed clothes. He needed five minutes to figure out how he'd gone from being a respected Auror to the subject of a tabloid frenzy overnight.
"You should stay here," he said.
Draco turned. "Excuse me?"
"I'll handle them."
"You'll handle them?"
"Yes."
"Harry, you can barely handle a press conference when it's scripted. These people will eat you alive."
"Then let them." He found his shirt on the floor and pulled it on. "But they're not going to eat you."
"I'm not some delicate flower—"
"I know you're not." He crossed to her and took her face in his hands. "But you're mine now. And I protect what's mine."
She stared at him. The fury in her eyes flickered, softened, became something else.
"You're insufferable," she said.
"I know."
"Arrogant."
"I know."
"Probably going to get yourself killed one day."
"Probably."
She kissed him. Hard. Quick. The kind of kiss that said we'll finish this later.
"Fine," she said. "Go. But if you embarrass me, I'm calling off the wedding."
"You'd never."
"I might."
"You won't."
She pushed him toward the door. "Go."
Harry grabbed his shirt and made his way to the door. The knocking had become a steady drumbeat now, and he could hear cameras clicking through the wood. He paused with his hand on the handle.
"Stay in bed," he said.
"What?"
"Stay in bed. Let me handle this."
"Harry—"
"I mean it, Draco. Stay."
She opened her mouth to argue. Then she closed it. Something in his expression must have told her this wasn't negotiable, because she stepped back and sat on the edge of the mattress.
"Fine," she said. "But you owe me."
"I always owe you."
He disappeared through the door to answer the press's questions.
---
The corridor was chaos.
There were at least twenty of them—journalists, photographers, a few independent bloggers who'd somehow gotten wind of the story. The Quick-Quotes Quill was still hovering, and now it was joined by three others, all scribbling furiously as Harry stepped out and closed the door behind him.
"Mr. Potter!"
"Harry!"
"Over here!"
"Is it true you proposed to Draco Malfoy?"
"Did Narcissa Malfoy approve?"
"What about the Weasley family's reaction?"
"Are you two already married?"
Harry held up his hands.
The noise didn't stop, but it dropped to a dull roar. He could see faces now—some he recognized from previous assignments, some he didn't. A witch in a bright purple hat was pushing her way to the front. A wizard with a camera was already snapping photos.
"I'm going to say this once," Harry said. "I'm not answering questions about my personal life."
"But Mr. Potter—"
"I'm not finished."
The witch in the purple hat fell silent.
"I proposed to Draco Malfoy last night. She said yes. That's all anyone needs to know." He met the eyes of every journalist in the corridor, one by one. "If I see a single speculative article about her, about us, about our families, I'll have my colleagues at the Auror office look into how you obtained your information. Some of you might remember that I know people in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
The corridor went very quiet.
"Now," Harry said. "I'm going to go back inside. And when I come out again, I expect all of you to be gone. If you're not, I'll start filing restraining orders."
He turned and walked back through the door.
Inside, Draco was sitting on the bed exactly where he'd left her. Her arms were crossed. Her expression was unreadable.
"You told them to leave," she said.
"I did."
"You threatened them."
"I did."
"With the Auror office."
"I did."
She uncrossed her arms and stood. Crossed the room. Stopped in front of him.
"That was the sexiest thing I've ever seen," she said.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"I threatened to file restraining orders."
"I heard."
"That's not sexy."
"Everything you do is sexy." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "It's a problem."
He laughed. It was a surprised sound, almost reluctant, and it loosened something in his chest.
"You're insane," he said.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
She kissed him. Slow this time. Deep. The kind of kiss that made him forget about the press and the gala and the fact that his entire life had just been turned upside down in the span of twelve hours.
When she pulled back, she was smiling.
"So," she said. "What now?"
"Now we eat breakfast."
"And after?"
"After, we figure out what to do about your mother."
"I thought you handled her last night."
"I handled her for last night. This is a new day." He ran his hand through his hair. "She's going to escalate. She has to. She can't let this go."
Draco's smile faded. "I know."
"Any ideas?"
"One." She stepped back and moved toward the wardrobe. "We get married this week."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"This week. Small ceremony. Just Ron and Granger as witnesses. A quiet bonding at the Ministry."
"That's not how you want to get married."
"How do you know what I want?"
"Because you're Draco Malfoy. You've been planning your wedding since you were six."
She paused. Her back was to him, but he saw her shoulders stiffen.
"Maybe I've changed," she said.
"You haven't."
"You don't know that."
"Draco." He crossed to her and turned her around. "Look at me."
She looked.
"You've been dreaming about this day your whole life. You've thought about the flowers. The dress. The venue. The guest list. You want the perfect wedding."
"I want you."
"You have me. You've always had me." He touched her cheek. "But I'm not going to let your mother take this from you. We're not hiding. We're not sneaking around. We're doing this right."
Her eyes were wet. She blinked fast. "She'll try to ruin it."
"Let her try."
"She'll succeed."
"No, she won't." He pulled her close. "Because I'm not letting go. Not now. Not ever."
She pressed her face into his chest. Her body shook, just slightly, and Harry held her tighter.
"I love you," she whispered.
"I love you too."
They stood like that for a long time. The sun crept higher. The press dispersed—Harry heard them go, muttering and clicking and probably already drafting their pieces. The Quick-Quotes Quill stopped writing and dropped to the floor, its work finished.
When Draco finally pulled back, her eyes were dry.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. We do this right. The wedding. The planning. My mother." She took a breath. "All of it."
"Together."
"Together."
He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her mouth.
"Then let's get started," he said.
---
They ate breakfast at the kitchen table. Eggs. Toast. Coffee for him, tea for her. Normal things. Domestic things.
Harry found himself staring at her across the table. The ring on her finger. The way she held her cup. The way the morning light caught her hair and turned it to silver.
"What?" she asked, catching him.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"Because you're beautiful."
"Smooth."
"I'm not trying to be smooth. I'm stating a fact."
She smirked. "You're getting better at this."
"At what?"
"Being charming."
"I'm not charming."
"You're learning." She sipped her tea. "It's terrifying."
They finished breakfast in comfortable silence. Harry cleared the dishes. Draco went to get dressed. When she came back, she was wearing a fitted black dress and heels, her hair pulled back in a sleek twist.
"I need to go to the Ministry," he said. "Talk to Robards. Make sure I still have a job."
"Why wouldn't you have a job?"
"Because I proposed to a Malfoy at a Sacred Twenty-Eight gala and then fucked her against a trophy case while her ancestors watched."
Draco laughed. "I think that's a positive, actually."
"For you. Not for my career."
"Robards will be fine. He's known you since you were eleven."
"He's known me since I was eleven and getting into trouble. This is a new level of trouble."
"Then suffer." She kissed his cheek. "I have errands anyway."
"What kind of errands?"
"Wedding kind."
His heart skipped. "You're not wasting any time."
"I never waste time."
"Where are you going?"
"Twilfitt and Tattings. I need to talk to the tailor."
"The same one who looked at us like we'd killed his cat?"
"He'll get over it. This is business." She grabbed her cloak. "I'll meet you back here at four. We can talk about the guest list."
"You're already thinking about the guest list?"
"I've been thinking about the guest list since I was sixteen." She winked. "You're behind, Potter. Try to keep up."
She was gone before he could respond.
Harry stood in the kitchen, alone, and wondered how his life had become this strange.
---
The Ministry was buzzing when he arrived.
People stared as he walked through the Atrium. Some whispered. Some smiled. A few gave him looks that suggested they'd already read the morning edition of the Prophet.
Harry ignored them all.
Robards was in his office, feet up on the desk, reading the same newspaper that everyone else had seen.
"Potter," he said, without looking up. "I heard you had an eventful evening."
"Word travels fast."
"Word travels at the speed of light when it involves the Chosen One proposing to a former Death Eater's daughter."
"She wasn't a Death Eater."
"Her father was."
"Her father is dead."
Robards finally looked up. His expression was unreadable.
"You know this is going to be a mess," he said.
"I know."
"The press will hound you. The old families will fight it. There will be hearings—maybe not official ones, but social ones. People will question your judgment."
"Let them."
"Your career will be affected."
"I have a ring. That's the only thing that matters."
Robards stared at him. Then he laughed. It was a dry, rusty sound, like a door opening after years of disuse.
"You really are a Gryffindor," he said.
"Guilty."
"The Auror office doesn't have any regulations against inter-house dating. Or marrying former pureblood heiresses. I checked."
"You checked?"
"I check everything, Potter. It's my job." He dropped the newspaper on his desk. "You're not in trouble. But you need to be smart. Don't engage with the press. Don't give them sound bites. Don't do anything that makes Malfoy look like a liability."
"I won't."
"Good. Because people are watching."
"I know."
"And Potter?"
"Yes?"
"Congratulations. She's terrifying, but she's terrifying in a good way."
Harry smiled. "Thanks."
---
He spent the rest of the day on paperwork. Updates. Case notes. Anything to keep his mind off the fact that Draco was planning a wedding that he was pretty sure would be bigger than anything he'd ever imagined.
At four o'clock, he Apparated home.
Draco was already there.
She was sitting on the couch, surrounded by magazines and fabric samples and what looked like a very long list. She looked up when he walked in, and her expression was somewhere between exhaustion and triumph.
"How was the Ministry?" she asked.
"Fine. How was the tailor?"
"He's designing the gown."
"Already?"
"I showed him a sketch. He's going to start tomorrow." She held up a piece of parchment. "We have options for the venue. Falmouth. Hogsmeade. The Manor."
"The Manor?"
"My mother would have an aneurysm."
"Are you considering it?"
"I'm considering everything." She set the parchment down. "But first, we need to talk about the guest list."
Harry crossed to the couch and sat beside her. She was warm—always warm—and she leaned into him without thinking.
"Okay," he said. "Let's talk about the guest list."
Draco smiled. It was a real smile. The kind that made her look young and hopeful and unguarded.
"There's a lot to discuss," she said.
"I have time."
"Good. Because we're going to be here all night."
Harry looked at her. At the ring on her finger. At the list on the table. At the magazines and fabric samples and the entire future stretching out in front of them.
"Fine," he said. "Let's plan a wedding."
She kissed him. Quick. Hard. Then she picked up the quill and launched into a discussion of seating arrangements and floral themes and whether they should invite her aunt Andromeda.
Harry followed. Because he'd follow her anywhere.