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It was like being back on a dragon, like riding the highest flying broom. They were above the ocean, above even the clouds and too high up to really see anything below the crinkled candy wrapper surface of the bright blue water. Draco was by his side, cracking off perfect curses with a flick of his wand at the overwhelmed smugglers. Harry’s veins were full of adrenaline. His ears were ringing with the shouting and the casting and the noises of the Muggle airplane, and the grin on his face prickled with how hard it pulled his cheeks.
Honestly, this whole situation was just really great.
“Potter,” Draco said, sharply calm. “Are you aware of how much I hate you at the moment?”
“Probably barely,” Harry called back, and it was like a dance: throw a quick shield spell around Draco here, sidestep a curse there, and an instinctive pivot to let Draco move around him to launch an attack of his own. “Think of all the other things I’ve done to make you hate me. This is a treat in comparison!”
It was true. Of the four smugglers, only three were really fighting — the burly one quaked at the trembling turbulence of the plane, and stayed on his hands and knees during each shudder, cursing in what sounded like French. Draco had already secured the passengers, despite having never seen a Muggle plane before this morning, and Harry was pretty certain he knew where the contraband was stashed. This wasn’t even a fight, it was recreation.
“I can handle this whole farce effortlessly and still find it damned inconvenient.” Draco’s Bombarda, unnecessarily excessive, nearly sent the shortest smuggler flying. “I have never dropped a glamour on a mission.”
Draco had blamed it on the cabin air, apparently. It was the “stale oxygen they puff out at the Economy Muggles in that arial plane” that made Draco sneeze and let his flashy Auror robes flicker into view, which gave it all away. Not at all the fact that the smugglers were already staring because Draco made an amazing spectacle of himself all through the airport and for the first three hours of the plane ride.
“You’re not that mad,” Harry said. “You haven’t cast a single Incarcerous, which means you’re just showing off to get your knickers out of their twist.” He stumbled as the plane bounced, missed with his Impedimentia spell, shrugged, dodged, and tried again. “I’m not stopping you, mind. But you can’t be in that much of a tiff.”
“I am perfectly capable of hating you for dragging me into this and still maintaining perfect spell form,” Draco snapped, and wrapped up the kneeling, burly one in an Incarcerous just to prove his point. “Go on an arial plane with me, he says. It’s like being on a broom, he says. An eight-bloody-hour flight to Montreal will be an experience, he says.”
“I didn’t say that last one,” Harry called back. “Robards did. All I said was that I thought it would be fun. You know, traveling the Muggle way.”
“The Muggles are inside the plane, where people belong!” Draco yelled over the French shouting. He stood like a matador, poised and powerful, snapping off countercurses while the wind in his hair made him look like a superhero. “We are standing on the wing, dodging curses from Canadian wizards. If you dare try to convince me that this is how the Muggles do it, I swear I will launch you right off this thing.”
*
Yesterday morning, Harry had burst into their office, triumphant. “We got the smuggler case!”
Draco frowned, and put down his quill. “We don’t want the smuggler case. No one wants the smuggler case. That case file has been sitting in the break room, and everyone’s been avoiding it like a Blast-Ended Skrewt.” He glared. “For good reason.”
“We get to go on an airplane!” Harry said. Draco was frowning, not yelling, which meant that they were going. “We’ll be flying higher than on any Quidditch pitch!”
“That’s why everyone is avoiding the case.”
Still no yelling. Harry was fine. He figured at most Draco would yell, but not get to the point of yelling and throwing things. “The Department of Transportation is already embarrassed at having to give up the case. Whoever catches these smugglers would really show up the wizards who claimed that ex-Death Eaters could never accomplish anything.”
Harry watched as the frown minutely twitched into a smirk. Progress.
“It’s a Muggle arial plane. Without one single spell for a safeguard while it’s in the air for hours,” Draco said.
“The Ministry can only book a flight back for Monday, so whoever takes the case gets an extra two days in Montreal.”
Draco’s head tilted up ever-so-slightly in interest. Jackpot.
“Do they always land?” Draco demanded. “Every single time?”
“Well, often enough.”
“No.”
“Draco, please,” Harry said. “I’ve always wanted to fly on a plane. When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to be an airplane pilot. And!” he flipped the file open. “The flight goes to Montreal. It says right here that being skilled in French would be an incredible asset.”
Draco paused. “I am an exquisite francophone, yes. Quebecois French uses more dialectical Anglicanisms, though, even without the Acadian influences.”
Harry hadn’t stopped grinning. “I didn’t understand any of that. We’re going, right?”
Draco sighed. “We’re going.”
Which is how Harry got to press his nose to the cold airplane window and feel the push against his chest as the plane took off. How he got to feel Draco’s bony fingers clutch at his knee while the engine roared in acceleration. Sense Draco’s shoulders tense as they crushed up against his own. Study Draco’s lips as they twitched in curiosity at ads in the airplane magazines. Hear Draco’s voice roll and lilt through an entire French conversation with a flight attendant.
Catch Draco’s cover as it got blown by a sneeze. Witness Draco’s very clever Apparition that avoided breaking the Statute of Secrecy by getting Harry and all four smugglers out on the wing of the plane while they were all tangled up in the fray.
A quick Obliviation, a sticking spell for their feet, a sharp flick of an elegant, pale wrist to bring down the window covers on this side of the plane, and the battle was on. The smugglers trying to set him and Draco on fire justified the adrenaline in Harry’s blood, but it was really just the excuse.
It didn’t matter that the closest Harry had ever come to an airport was a week abandoned at Mrs. Figgs’ when the Dursleys went to Bermuda. Or that the two of them marched right into unfamiliar, Muggle territory on less than twenty-four hour’s notice. Harry and Draco had dealt with much worse in the past, both together and individually, both as partners and before they were even adults. Harry and Draco were the best Auror team in the Ministry, and a small detour from inside the plane to outside wouldn’t stop them.
So here he was. In the middle of an unwieldy duel, sure. But he was flying above the clouds, strutting through the dance of a magical fight against enemies who were in over their heads.
And beside him was Draco, in his fancy singed shirt and a halo of blond hair, insulting smugglers in French while the wind lashed his robes around him like living things. It was just … nice, is all.
It was a little less nice when the plane hiccuped and Harry stumbled and the stiff tug of a body-bind wrapped around his muscles before he got his balance back. Harry grunted as his shoulder landed on the wing of the plane and he slid a bit before the sticking spell snagged him. The smuggler had her wand on him, chanting, but the plane bucked again and she went down hard on her rump — the sharp green light of her spell shooting up, instead of at Harry’s prone body.
From across the wing, Draco Incarcerous’d her before she could try again. “You’re just going to leave me to do all the work, then?” he sighed.
Harry grinned. “I can cheer you on?”
He wouldn’t do only that, really. With his face so close to the wing, the wind was somehow louder, faster. But Harry was a professional. He could cast a Jelly-legs Jinx and an Expelliarmus even without his wand, and so he shouted out their words even as the air was whipped out of his mouth. That done, he let Draco handle the rest as he worked his way up to a sitting position and just watched.
It was easy to watch Draco. Everyone did. The Prophet did, obviously, in anticipation of the day Draco would apparently just wake up one day bad and kill Harry or something. As if Harry going on record multiple times saying that he trusted Draco with his life, thank you, wasn’t enough. But Society pages always kept note of how Draco would turn heads in whatever poncy fashion he kept managing to pull off on an Auror’s salary. The Ministry couldn’t help but study Draco’s perfect record in grudging admiration. Plus, even though he never took credit for it, it was an open secret that Draco kept investing his savings in unknown shops and restaurants and artisans and turning every single one into the best new discovery in wizarding London, and so Draco had people following him everywhere trying to get wind of the next big thing.
But the real reason everyone watched him was because it was impossible to have Draco Malfoy walk by without watching him. He’d grown into his pointy nose and boney chin, and he somehow also got sharper cheekbones and fuller lips in the process. He walked like he was the ghost of the Queen of England: poised, elegant, dazzling — and yet still somehow ethereal and unreal. Harry had hoped that he’d gain some kind of immunity to the thrall of Draco Malfoy, standing by him so much every day, but he never ever did.
And so Harry had to wait, rolling his eyes, while the requisition witch wrote down her Floo address on every one of Draco’s return slips.
Harry has to walk behind, carrying cloaks and bags, while the tailor talks of how he would love a chance to take Draco into a back room for a fitting.
He has to stand, silent and fuming, while the owner of the curry place they go to every Friday trie to get Draco to return after closing — for a midnight snack.
“You know, in Punjabi, my full name means dragon, too,” Jag would say. “They’re prestigious. Around the world, any culture that has dragons reveres them. Knows that dragons are a kind of magic above the rest of the standard breed. Like you and I.”
Draco always turned them down, gently, politely, but they never had the right to ask. Not when Harry was right there. Even though Harry was always better at duels than spitting out what he actually felt.
In the distance was a faraway continent the size of a chocolate frog.
Here, high above the whole world, in the wind and the sun and the ferocity of battle, Draco was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. Harry wasn’t a dragon, wasn’t good enough for the elegance of Draco, and he really wished he could tell Draco without Draco just punting him right off the wing of the plane. But he could watch, as Draco dodges and disarms and detains. Harry could feel it surging in his veins, the adrenaline probably, pounding through his heart and making his fingers tingle.
“That was not nearly enough cheering, you miserable excuse for a partner.” Draco left the bundled-up smugglers and came over to undo Harry’s body bind. But the smile was there, tugging up the edges of Draco’s stern lips, and Harry was forgiven.
Harry felt Draco’s long fingers wrap around his wrist pulling him up. “Well, Potter? What have you got to say for yourself to redeem this farce of a situation?”
Draco’s cheeks were pinked, and the fingers on Harry’s skin were freezing cold. Harry wanted to tell Draco how beautiful he was, but figured he should probably say something that didn’t show how obviously head over heels he was.
“Marry me,” Harry said instead.
Draco reeled back. “What did you say?”
“Er,” Harry said.
*
Once upon a time, when Harry was with Ginny and he thought that was what he wanted, there were always plans in the back of his mind for a spontaneous proposal. He’d ask her to marry him the way he defeated Voldemort: when the instinct felt right, or when he felt like he was dying.
Of course, he and Ginny had actually been dating at the time, official acknowledgement from the Daily Prophet and all. Things were very different here. Harry and Draco went to Quidditch matches together on weekends, got curry together, crashed on each others’ couch, and stole each others’ cold tea during long cases. But they weren’t together. There had never even been a hint of it — no drunken half-confession, no tentative bump of fingers against each other, no charged near-kiss under the mistletoe. He wanted it, though. Harry proposed to Draco because his instinct felt like this was the most right thing to do in the world, and Draco was going to murder him for it.
Draco’s cold fingers were still around his wrist, jaw slacked, eyes wide. “You just proposed to me.”
The plane dipped and they both wobbled, steadied. Harry focused on his wrists. Until Draco let go, Harry would go through a lot to keep them there, even if the plane fell out of the sky.
“Er, yes.” Harry tried a shrug and a half-grin, so he wouldn’t look like he was screaming inside.
“Are you insane?” Draco studied Harry’s face, apparently genuinely worried about this.
Harry wasn’t an idiot. He knows exactly when he’s done something that will cause nothing but shit. But knowing has never stopped him. “That’s technically not a no.”
Draco huffed in aggravation, letting go of Harry’s wrist, flinging his hands up and spinning back to the pile of tied up smugglers, who were still yelling at Draco in French. He reached into his robes, yanked out the Ministry Emergency Apprehension Portkey — a Christmas ornament shaped like a pineapple — activated it and flung it at the smugglers, whipping them off to the Auror’s holding cells and leaving the stretch of wing suddenly empty except for the wind.
Then he stomped back to where Harry was, and yanked at the ropes around him. “If you’re not insane, does this mean you’re an idiot?” Draco flicked his wand to cut Harry bonds, then picked up the ropes and threw them over the wing with a yell. “Harry, we’re not dating.”
Harry winced. That was the technicality to the whole thing proposal thing, yes.
“I know —” Harry started, but Draco held up a sharp finger: “I’m not done!”
Draco was yelling. Not frowning, yelling and throwing. The thrill of the fight was still in Harry’s veins, even as his heart was lurching, because his body never understood that being in this kind of danger was bad.
“We’re not fucking, Harry!” Draco was pacing small circles on the limited space of the airplane wing. “We’ve haven’t even kissed. We haven’t even held hands.”
“I mean, I’d like to do all those things,” Harry said, then frowned at Draco’s stunned expression. “I can also… not do those things, if you’re not, er, interested.”
Draco shook his head. “I need to get off this plane. Right now.”
The air surged out of Harry chest and wisped away into wind roaring around them. The glowing adrenaline of being on top of the world with Draco by his side had seeped away. Harry had proposed and Draco hadn’t murdered him. But this wasn’t exactly better.
“Oh,” Harry said, softly. Then, “Here,” he reached into his robes and pulled out two shrunken brooms, and held one out to Draco. “I brought these, just in case. You can see North America over there. It shouldn’t be a long flight.”
“Fantastic,” Draco snatched the broom from Harry, enlarged it, then made to straddle it. “Aren’t you coming?”
Harry blinked. “I thought you needed to get away from me?”
Draco sighed. “No, you idiot. I said I need to get off this plane. I think we need to get back on land, take separate hot showers, and get some food. I paid an idiotic amount of Muggle money for a bag with nine peanuts in it when we were still inside on those cramped cushion chairs, and I’m hungry. Being on solid land, with food, is unarguably much better than staying hungry up here. Then we can sort out … all this.”
Oh. That was… actually a lot better. There was no adrenaline yet, but air started to come back into his lungs.
“I got us a reservation,” Harry said, a peace offering. “At that place in Montreal with that chef you like.”
“C’est Ne Pas Un Baguette Magique?” Draco blinked. “I only mentioned it to you once.”
Harry shrugged. “I listen.”
Draco shrunk the broom back down and stepped back to Harry, scrutinizing. He didn’t even wobble as the plane bumped, rolling through the waves like a sailor in the sky. “Harry.”
Harry swallowed. He was going to tell Draco, right then. But Draco beat him to it.
“Harry, you really are in love with me, aren’t you?” Draco asked. “This proposal… it isn’t some massive prank you’re pulling on me?”
Harry sighed. In another version of this whole cock-up, Harry gets away with playing it off as a joke, so that he has a better chance, a real chance to tell Draco the way Draco deserved to be told. Instead, he says, “Yeah. I really do love you.”
“Of all the bloody ways to do it, why now?”
“I mean, if I’m being honest, it was an accident. I was never going to tell you.” Harry tried take a breath, tried to get more air in his lungs than the gasping air around him allowed. “If I never told you, you’d never have to say no, and I’d get to keep our dinners and our jokes and our bets on the Ministry interns. I’ve seen the smartest, sexiest, richest people in Britain hit on you. If they never even got a date, then someone like me wouldn’t have a chance. But I could be your partner, the best partner you’d ever have. I could duel by your side while you threw curses like a sexy bastard, and I could watch you do that thing where you scrunch up your nose while you’re trying to solve a case. I could… it’d be enough for me. It’d be nice.”
Harry was really grateful for that sticking spell. There was no more turbulence, and the wind was no stronger than before, but his boots cemented to the wing was the only thing in the world stopping him from sliding off the edge into the wide, wide blue below.
Draco closed his eyes, and said a very long sentence in French that sounded like it had a lot of swearing in it. The clouds drifting below them didn’t seem to care, but then the insults probably weren’t for them.
“Er,” Harry said. “How mad at me is ’swearing in French’ mad? Is this more mad than when you’re throwing things?”
“No,” Draco snapped, flinging his hands into the air. “I’m barely mad at you at all, and that’s the fucking problem. I just got the worst proposal in existence from a man I’m not even dating, right after dodging two dozen hexes and trying not to fall off a plane. And yet, somehow, I’m so stupidly in love with great idiotic Harry Potter that I actually find this whole farce endearing! Charming! Practically heart-melting!” Draco glared up at the atmosphere, to where Merlin himself had probably settled for the rest of his immortality. “Is this because I was a Death Eater? Is this the penance I have to pay for the rest of my life?”
And there, like a firecracker, like a shout, like a perfect spell in a duel beside his partner, the adrenaline came exploding back. “You love me?” Harry asked.
Draco sighed. “Yes, I said that already. Are you paying attention, Harry? This is the order things are supposed to go.”
He took half a step forward and threaded his freezing fingers through Harry’s. He was so pale that Harry could see faint blue veins near Draco’s knuckles, and feel the smoothness of his skin. Except for the side of his middle finger and the pad of his thumb — calluses from quills and wandwork. Harry knew they’d be there, even before Draco’s fingers touched his own, and Harry loved him so overwhelmingly much that he couldn’t breathe.
Then Draco bit his bottom lip, opened his mouth, bit his lip again before sucking in a deep breath and pressing his mouth to Harry’s.
His lips were cold, but his breath was so, so warm. It tingled across Harry’s lips as Draco pulled back, then gently kissed him again, the chilly tip of his nose a tentative press against Harry’s cheek. After that kiss, Draco stayed close, fingers in his.
“Harry, you have a terrible sense of romance,” Draco said and gave him a very aggressive kiss on the forehead. “I can’t believe I’m going to marry you.”
Harry blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Come on, let’s get on the brooms,” Draco said. “When we get to Montreal, we’ll go to dinner and I’ll teach you how to properly woo someone, since you can’t manage it yourself.” He looked over his shoulder and winked at Harry as the whole world stretched out before them. Draco’s grin was crinkling his face, and his hair flopped over his eye, more beautiful than any duel, any dragon. “Race you?”