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Draco walks the Manor grounds, his thoughts as dense and ephemeral as the fog blanketing the rolling hills — resolute at a distance, but wispy and dissolving once approached up close. He arose early, before the house elves had set the fires even, an hour at least before the sun, careful not to wake Harry sprawled in the bed.
In his bed.
He walks the gravel lane to the iron gate and along the edge of the Malfoy property, trailing his fingertips along the rough stone wall, the cold rocks leaching the memory of warm, flushed skin from his fingertips.
I love how tenderly you lay me open, body and soul.
At the forest, he detours down the path to the chapel, the fog laying thick over pavers traversed by generations of Malfoys. Leaves drift down from trees nearly barren now, though they were once lush and dancing in the summer sunlight. It was as if they had joined in Harry's joy as he ran ahead, laughing at Draco over his shoulder.
I love that you snort when something strikes you as extremely funny, usually at my expense.
Draco pauses at Mother’s grave, the fog a beautiful mantle around the Ming vase at the foot of her marble headstone. Lilies release their scent, as everblooming and pristine as the ones Harry had placed on her bedside table as she lay dying. It had been natural for her to clasp Harry's hand as well as Draco's.
I love how fiercely you protect the ones you love.
Fog curls around Draco’s legs as he strolls past the pond, his watery reflection as shimmery as that spring day by the Great Lake. Hogwarts, newly restored, rose above the wildflowers as Harry taught him to skip rocks, guiding his arm from behind, and Draco grousing nonstop that he knew exactly what he was doing. It had been so easy to turn in Harry’s arms and plant a kiss on his lips.
I love that you get this crinkle between your brow when you’re determined or focused.
Fog blankets the field beyond the pond, over which Draco learned to fly. Father had removed the safety dampers on the practice broom against Mother’s wishes. It had felt as thrilling to fly high as to break the rules, but not nearly as exhilarating as pushing a broom to its limits, chasing a flash of gold opposite a beautiful boy with a lightning scar.
I love that you don’t hold back with me and give as good as you get.
The hawthorn Father planted when Draco was born rises ahead out of the fog as if carried on fairy clouds. On fall days, Mother would make the berries into a wine that tasted as crisp and dry as the sherry Draco used to steal from her Waterford. The canopy, once manicured by Manor gardeners, is now overgrown, the branches nearly brushing the ground — a perfect, private enclosure. Perfect for a quiet picnic and a lazy shag, Harry gorgeous and loose, drunk on hawberry wine, climaxing with a gasp and a proposal.
I love that you are the last person I want to see before I close my eyes at night.
Answer me when you’re ready, love.
Draco quickens his pace, barely noticing autumn air creeping through his waning warming charm, stealing up under his coat sleeves and biting his wrists. He doesn't bother to reset it. Doves flush out of the brambles when Draco passes, their coos a staccato cry. The sun crests the horizon and sets the fog ablaze.
Draco is running now.
The Manor looms ahead, windows agleam, a flirting wink with the dawn. The fog dissipates, and the world comes into sharp focus as Draco throws open the doors and bounds up the stairs. He bursts into the room, breath heaving his chest, startling Harry awake.
“Everything ok, love?” Harry asks, sleep rumpled and perfect.
“Yes,” Draco says breathless. “I’ll marry you.”