Work Text:
The sky was a clear blue, and February had just given way to March when Draco Malfoy decided he was ready to marry.
Close to thirty years of age, he knew he had to marry if he wanted to ensure that Malfoy Manor, its surrounding lands and tenants, and his fortune remain within his bloodline and not handed off to his third cousin who would no doubt squander the fortune in London’s gambling hells.
So, the sky was a clear blue with a slight breeze in the air when he announced to no-one in particular that he was intending to marry and would depart for London to pick up the rest of the season before its end in late August.
Draco had managed to live a peaceful life in rural Wiltshire. He had had his fun, of course. His days at Oxford were fondly thought of; the sound of youthful laughter ringing in his ears as he recalls the trouble he and his peers would get into.
The fun ended too soon, however. Upon the death of his father, Lucius Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire in his final year of university, Draco had returned home and dutifully took up his inherited title and the follies that came with it.
Draco had been running the estate and his life on his own for almost a decade. He was just now realising how lonely such a task is. For Draco, marriage was the clear answer.
--------
Draco had been in London all of 48 hours when the first of the invitations begin to arrive. He hadn’t tried to hide his arrival in the city; dining at his club on the first night, drinking with old university friends until the early hours. Draco knew it would only be a matter of time before the first cream envelope would land on his desk.
However, it wasn’t the delicately written invitations that captured his attention. Rather, it was the dark red wax seal with his friend’s signet ring impression printed into it. Theodore Nott had grown up two estates from Draco’s. Their mothers had been close friends, both coming out and marrying in the same season, it was to be expected that Draco and Theodore would be best friends. As luck would have it, Draco wouldn’t have it any other way. Theodore had gotten Draco out of many sticky situations, and vice versa.
Reading the missive from his dear friend, Draco reaches for his jacket, alerting his staff that he would gone for most of the morning. If they needed him, they would be at Saville House – Theodore’s home.
Saville House resided a 10-minute walk from Draco’s own home in Portman Square. One of many residences held by Theodore now that his beloved father had passed on; a rather large house in Grosvenor Square that screamed wealth. From the wrought iron gates to the mix of brick holding the house up, Theodore’s status dripped from every nook and cranny, only further punctuated by the decoration of the house.
“Malfoy!” Theodore Nott, Lord Saville, cries out as he enters the pale blue drawing room to which Draco had been led to after arriving on Theodore’s step.
The smile cannot be kept from Draco’s face as he greets his oldest friend; one of a handful to never use his official title. “Nott,” He smiles, clapping his friend on the shoulder, “How are you? How’s married life treating you?”
Theodore had married last season’s incomparable, Elsie Quinn in a widely publicised ceremony just over a year ago. Draco had never been happier for his friend despite the pit of loneliness settling deep within his gut. Theodore had been a known rake; his roguish grin having several ladies fall to his feet, but he had found Elsie, and he would never stray.
“Highly recommended,” Theodore answers, gesturing for Draco to take a seat as he wanders to the drinks cart. “You’ll have to forgive Elsie’s absence, she’s abed.”
“I hope everything’s okay,” Draco murmurs, taking his offered drink, a touch of concern in his voice.
“She’s perfect. She’s expecting our first child in less than three months.”
Draco lets out a whoosh of breath. Smiling widely at his dearest friend, he raises his glass in toast. “Congratulations, Theodore. I could not be happier.”
“Thank you, Draco,” Theodore whispers, eyes glassy for a brief second. The moment is over quickly, Theodore shaking his head, “I have to admit, I was surprised to get your missive, I thought you hated London.”
“I don’t hate London,” Draco protests, “I hate meddling mothers.”
“A toast to that,” Theodore laughs before turning serious. “Marriage, Draco? Truly?”
“It’s time,” Draco states, repeating the words he had uttered to his staff. Truly, if he said them enough, he would soon begin to believe them. “Malfoy Manor needs a countess. I need a wife.”
“I never thought I would see the day.” Theodore muses, topping up his glass. “Will you be attending Lady Blake’s soiree tonight?”
“I feel I must,” Draco sighs. “One can never ignore a summons from Lady Blake. Will I see you there?” Draco asks, an eyebrow raised at his dear, dear friend.
Theodore shakes his head. “I wouldn’t attend with Elsie; I’d be lost without her.”
Theodore’s words stay with Draco for much longer than he would like to admit. Much later, Draco thinks back to the expression on Theodore’s face as he uttered the words that had ended Draco’s visit. Utter devotion: Theodore was entirely and irrevocably devoted to his wife. Draco had never seen such a look on anyone’s face, and it’s with a sharp pang in his gut that Draco realises that’s exactly what he wants.
He doesn’t want a marriage of convenience. He doesn’t want to marry a fortune hunter.
He wants to marry for love.
-------
As night descended upon the city of London, the ton were beginning to make their debut. Husbands, wives, sons, daughters – they all made their way to Lady Blake’s for her annual summer ball. Lady Blake had conducted such a gathering since first marrying Lord Blake, the Earl of Wetherby thirty years ago. It had become a social institution; engagements, love affairs, clandestine business meetings all taking place under her roof.
Draco Malfoy sits back in his curricle, grateful for the slight cover as he draws his evening jacket tighter around his waist. The days were pleasant enough; warm and sunny, but the nights were beginning to drop cold despite the promise of spring around the corner.
“I’ll hire a carriage for the way back,” Draco announces to his valet who had accompanied him on the ride. “Take this back and let the horses rest.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Draco watches his staff and horses leave before beginning the climb up Lady Blake’s stairs. His stomach was a ball of nerves; he had not been able to stomach a thing but a small piece of toast forced upon him by his Housekeeper, Mrs O’Neill. It had been an age since he had stepped into an event such as this. They held dances in his village; ones he regularly attended, laughing, and drinking with his tenants, dancing with their daughters to keep the status quo. However, this was different. He was here for marriage, and he would not leave London until such had been achieved.
The very thought left Draco feeling uncomfortably nauseous.
Handing his invitation to the nearest footman, Draco feels the silence descend across the ballroom at his announcement. He barely represses a groan as he catches sight of the dear mama’s nagging their daughters to stand straighter, smile brighter, look prettier.
A headache was beginning to form across the centre of his forehead.
Smiling dutifully, Draco thanks a nearby waiter for his glass of champagne before he descends into the fray.
He doesn’t make it ten steps.
“Lord Wiltshire!”
“Lady Smithers,” Draco smiles, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. “How are you?”
“Perfectly fine,” She dithers, waving a dismissive hand at him. “Have you met my daughter? Miss Lavinia Smithers, Lord Draco Malfoy – Earl of Wiltshire.”
“Miss Smithers,” Draco smiles politely, obediently kissing the back of her hand too.
A blush colours her cheeks; she blinks repeatedly as she stutters out a greeting to Draco. A pang of pity hits Draco; this is what he despised about debutante season, those that were perpetually shy were forced into the spotlight where the vultures of the ton could pick them apart piece by piece.
It was barbaric.
He makes idle conversation with Lady and Miss Smithers before making his getaway. Lady Smithers had not been best pleased, but there was only so long that Draco could stand small talk when he could see the burning questions in their eyes, but both being far too polite to ask him.
The champagne sits uncomfortably in his stomach; Draco had never liked fizzy drinks, they never agreed with his digestive system. He much preferred an aged brandy, or even a decently aged port. Something he could linger with, not imbibe, but could sit and converse with someone over. Champagne didn’t allow that; it had to be drunk before it went flat.
Draco freezes in place when he spies the latest mother to drag her daughter in his direction. Lady Meyer barely has chance to plaster a polite smile on her face before Draco ducks back into the crowds; his wits and nerves left behind as he hightails it to the drinks table.
Lemonade remains to be the most popular drink; Draco grimaces as he reaches for a glass. He knew himself he was overly picky when it came to this drink; too much sugar and you’ve lost its flavour, but not enough leaves your guests puckering their lips for the rest of the night. It was a delicate balance.
He takes a sip and frowns.
Too much sugar.
“I do believe you’ve taken my drink,” A feminine voice chimes from Draco’s left. He startles; warm lemonade spilling onto the cuff of his evening jacket. “My apologies,” states the voice, a gloved hand entering Draco’s view as they pat dry the too sweet liquid.
“(Y/N)?” Draco mumbles, finally fixing his gaze on the source of the soft voice that had manage to startle him.
“Draco?” She whispers, eyes scanning over his face, taking in the clear changes from the last time she had clapped eyes on the blonde. His hair has grown; artfully styled dishevelment that stops just before his high collar. His eyes remain the same grey, but they’re older now – much wiser, but if she takes a closer look, she can still catch a glimpse of the fun, young lad he had once been. (Y/N) pauses before glancing at his lip; the full lips that had been the subject of many of her dreams, that she had once hoped to feel against her neck, her cheek, her mouth.
“I haven’t seen you in…”
“Years,” She finishes, her voice exceptionally quiet in the hubbub of the ballroom, but Draco hears her perfectly. “It’s been years.”
He barely represses the urge to reach out for her; to crush her to his chest, to wrap his arms around her and never let her go again. As it is, his hand twitches by his side which he firmly crushes into a fist.
“I didn’t know you were in London,” She smiles. Polite, small talk – that was where he was relegated to after such an absence in her life. He could have gone to her after her first season; could have declared his intentions before then even, but he never did. That was his first mistake.
“I arrived two days ago,” He answers smoothly, “I haven’t been to London in some time.”
“I imagine we would have run into one another if you had,” (Y/N) states smartly.
“Do you reside here for the whole year?”
“Oh yes,” She nods, “It’s a rare choice, but some families prefer to stay in London for the year. There’s something about London in Autumn.”
(Y/N) falls silent, casting her gaze longingly to the slowly filling dancefloor. It had been an age since her dance card had been full; her many years unmarried were beginning to do damage to her reputation. If she wasn’t married by now, men were beginning to question her eligibility.
Music fills the ballroom; the orchestra in perfect coordination as the men hold their ladies in position. A waltz. Perfect, Draco thinks to himself, enough time to talk. “Dance with me?” He asks, fixing her with a look that makes it incredibly hard to say no.
Her hand tangles with his as he leads her onto the floor. She notes, with some surprise, that Draco has grown since the last time they stood in this position. His shoulder is firm and strong under her hand, and his hand perfectly envelops hers as his other hand rests warmly on her lower back.
She shudders against his touch, stepping that little bit closer, ignoring societal expectations of the many inches expected between couples when dancing the waltz. Barely twenty years ago, this dance scandalised. Now, it was the most anticipated for every event.
“Are you cold?” Draco questions, voice low as the music begins in earnest.
“I’m not,” She snaps, annoyance seeping into her tone as she realises that he caught her shudder.
“Don’t go working yourself into a snit,” He teases; eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Excuse me,” She gasps, rearing back to get a good look at his face. “I’ll have you know I don’t get into snits; I never have.”
“There’s always a first.”
(Y/N) harrumphs, repressing the growing urge to stand on Draco’s toes as he leads her in the dance. Peeking a glance at the taller man, she startles when she finds Draco already watching her with an amused look on his face.
“How have you been?” Draco whispers, desperate for conversation with her.
“I’ve been well,” (Y/N) answers honestly. “How is Wiltshire and the manor? Do you still have the cows?”
Draco chuckles, effortlessly spinning her out before drawing her back in. She’s somewhat breathless by the time she returns to the safety of his arms. “Wiltshire is fine. The manor is lonely. The cows miss you.”
“And Bessie?”
Draco frowns, wondering whether this would be the time to tell her. Bessie, (Y/N)’s favourite, passed in calving season a few years ago. It had been a devastating loss for Draco; Bessie had been part of one of the first herds his father had let him purchase. “I’m sorry,” He murmurs sadly, meeting (Y/N)’s worried gaze. “Bessie passed away in the middle of calving season. Her heart wasn’t strong enough.”
“Oh…” She whispers, blinking back the tears, feeling foolish for letting herself be so affected by a cow. However, she remembered accompanying Draco to buy the herd; she remembered pointing to Bessie and naming her, herself. (Y/N) had spent hours with Draco and the herd, learning their ways, asking question after question to do with farming – all wearily answered by Draco’s farm manager, Tom Baleby. “I’m sorry for your loss, Draco,” She whispers.
“No matter,” Draco smiles, loathing the sad, haunted look that has taken over (Y/N)’s face. “We cannot linger on the past too much; not when we have a whole future in front of us.”
“When did you become so wise?”
“It comes with the title,” Draco teases. “The moment I became Earl of Wiltshire, I got an extra qualification in being wise.”
“Bugger off,” She snorts, her smile wide and her eyes happy.
The music rises and falls as do the dancers. Draco’s hands remain tight on her body; the hand on her lower back practically crushing the fabric of her dress. They spin and they sway; they rise, and they fall. They pay no mind to the gossips of the ton, gathering like vultures at the edge of the dancefloor, watching the young couple twirl their way across the floor without a care in the world for what anyone might think.
By tomorrow, it will be well known that Lord Draco Malfoy has returned to London in earnest. By tomorrow, it will be whispered around cups of tea and finger sandwiches that Lord Draco Malfoy danced with Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N), and that he didn’t want to let her go.
But for now, the pair dance without a worry for what tomorrow may bring. The only worry on their minds is what will they do when the music inevitably ends, and they have to part ways.
Such a thing happens too soon for Draco’s liking.
“Will I see you again soon?” Draco asks, unable to help himself. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed her until he had her in his arms once more; she felt right there, she fit perfectly into the crook of his body, as if she were moulded just for him.
“It would not surprise me if we ran into each other.”
“I want to see you again,” Draco confesses, “It’s been so long.”
(Y/N) steps further out of his reach, beginning to blend seamlessly with the crowd as she smiles at the blonde. “You know where to find me,” She answers, curtseying before turning her back on the boy she once thought she had forever with.
------
The clock on her bedside table brings her close to tears when she spies the time. Six o’clock in the morning. (Y/N) had arrived home just after two meaning that she had been tossing and turning in bed for close to four hours.
Unacceptable.
Her mind had been unable to settle once safely out of her dress and in her nightgown. She kept replaying the events of the evening; the exact colour of Draco’s eyes, the flood of joy that rushed through her veins at the sight of him in London, how it felt to hold him close. At one point in their lives, a long time ago, it was assumed that they would be married, and they would be in love. Yet, life is funny that way, Draco left for university and (Y/N) left for her first season. Along the way, they both got lost in the madness, and they lost communication, but (Y/N) never lost her love for the boy that would dance with her by the pond on his estate.
With a heavy sigh, (Y/N) dresses herself, only struggling with the final three buttons at the top of her dress. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she was going to walk. The fresh air combined with the early morning hour would surely help refresh her mind, bringing on the sleep she so desperately desired, wouldn’t it?
The kitchen bustles with activity as (Y/N) lands on the final step. “My lady,” Marie greets, shocked at (Y/N)’s presence in the kitchen. “May I ask why you’re down here?”
“I would like to go on a walk,” (Y/N) explains, fiddling with her lace gloves. “I understand that it’s early, but do you think Cook would sneak me some food to eat on the way?”
“I’m sure she would, my lady,” Marie smiles indulgently, “But you aren’t going on a walk unchaperoned, are you?”
“That is where you come in, Marie.”
Marie’s smile falls as she glances outside; the skies were already shaping up to be a fine day, but the clock had not been her friend.
Food in hand, (Y/N) and Marie depart Sycamore House heading in the direction of Hyde Park. “I don’t plan on doing much, Marie, so you are more than welcome to find a bench and complete some knitting you may have or read.”
“Thank you, my lady. But I must ask: why are you up so early? Why come to the kitchens, why not ring for me?”
“I felt the need to be productive,” (Y/N) explains, picking at her breakfast pastry. “I had trouble sleeping so chose to begin my day.”
Marie, satisfied at her lady’s answer, nods, returning her focus on the walk to Hyde Park. The pair amble through the early morning London streets, arriving quickly.
“I think here will be fine, Marie, don’t you think?” (Y/N) states suddenly, spying a free bench. She takes a seat on the nearby bench, producing a newspaper from the basket Cook had given her. She didn’t often read The Times, but against the wishes of her father, she had placed some money in the stock market and was curious to see how her investments were doing.
“My lady, I don’t want to alarm you, but there is a man approaching us.”
“Oh,” (Y/N) gasps, glancing up from the newspaper pilfered from her father’s office, the ink still wet and staining her gloves. Her intentions to return to her reading dissipate as she meets the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.
“Lord Wiltshire,” (Y/N) greets, standing from her seat, bobbing into a curtsey.
“Lady (Y/L/N),” Draco smiles, “I must admit, I did not expect to find you in the park so early.”
“Neither did I,” She admits, “But I find it one of the best places to read.”
“As I recall, you always preferred reading in the outdoors. I cannot count on one hand how many times I found you perched on the lower branches of a tree, a book in hand.”
(Y/N) remains silent, stunned by his memory of her. She had loved those days; sat in her favourite tree with her favourite book with her favourite boy on the branches above. She cherished those days.
“It looks to be turning out to be a fine day,” Draco smiles, glancing at the brightening sky before returning his gazed to (Y/N). She had aged in the years that he had last seen her; more refined, more beautiful yet it was growing clearer and clearer to him that she had not lost her zest for life. “Would you like to join me for a brief walk?”
(Y/N) glances at her maid, chewing on her bottom lip, unsure of her answer. Draco interrupts before she can decline. “We shall remain in sight of your maid for the whole time.”
(Y/N) sighs, leaving her newspaper behind as she takes Draco’s hand, letting herself be led away. She had been thinking about his touch since leaving him behind at Lady Blake’s ball; the warmth of his skin on hers, the rough feel of his calluses on the palm of her hand, the inner of her wrist. She had never been so affected by a simple touch of a hand.
Remaining in sight of Marie, (Y/N) walks comfortably at Draco’s side, her hand resting on his forearm. For a moment, neither say a word, too caught up in their own thoughts to begin a proper conversation.
“You never did tell me your reasoning for coming to London after all this time.”
“I need to find a wife,” Draco states bluntly, enjoying the shocked expression that falls across (Y/N)’s face.
“A wife?”
Draco nods. “It’s time I get married. I’m not getting any younger, and I need an heir.”
“How romantic,” She drawls.
“If she were also my love match,” Draco murmurs, “I would not be upset.”
“So, you’re here for the whole season?”
“It looks like I am.”
Silence falls between the pair; the only sound being their steps on the path as they traverse further into Hyde Park.
“I have an idea,” Draco begins, “And feel free to say no.”
“The last time you said that I fell out of a tree,” (Y/N) deadpans, brought back to an unpleasant memory.
“You didn’t have to climb that high,” Draco protests.
“I had to climb higher than you.”
“Nonsense.”
“What’s your idea, Draco?”
“Help me find a wife.”
“I beg your pardon?!”
“Hear me out,” Draco pleads, close to getting onto his knees and begging the woman he once thought he was going to marry. “You know London society better than I do,” Draco explains, “So it would make sense that you would know the eligible women waiting for marriage.”
“And?”
“You could help whittle down the lot. Find me a wife that is suitable, someone who I could love and live a life with. Marriage is forever, you know.”
“I am well aware,” She bluntly states, ignoring the heartbreak for the girl she once was. “Very well,” (Y/N) sighs, brushing down her skirts. “I shall help you.”
“You will?”
“You needn’t look so shocked, my lord,” She teases. She shakes her head fondly before continuing, “It would be nice to spend time with you. I don’t see you in years then I see you twice in less than 24 hours – this is a treat.”
Draco gapes for a moment, shocked at how readily accepted his proposal was. “Thank you,” He splutters bringing (Y/N)’s hand to his lips, kissing the back of it. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re very welcome,” She murmurs, unable to help the flush of her skin at the feel of his lips against her. “Will you be attending Lady Stephen’s ball tomorrow night?” (Y/N) queries, changing the subject, “I only ask as that would be the best time to introduce you to the ladies that would suit you best.”
“I shall make myself free and meet you there,” Draco promises, steering them both back in the direction of (Y/N)’s maid.
“Perfect,” She grins, dropping her hold of Draco’s arm and stepping, feeling oddly bereft without his presence near her. Bobbing into a curtsey, she smiles at the blonde she once spent her days with, “Until tomorrow, Lord Malfoy.”
“Until tomorrow,” Draco promises, dipping into a bow, leaving the two women to discuss their already busy mornings.
------
(Y/N)’s mind remains a storm of activity after Draco’s departure. Sitting in her drawing room, her mind’s eye flashes with the countless faces of this year’s cream of the crop. She would not accept any less for Draco; not when she was partly responsible for ensuring his future bride.
A headache begins to bloom behind her eyes as she whittles down the list of names in her head. Reaching across the arm of the couch, (Y/N) rings for tea, craving the comforting taste as well as a few of Cook’s signature ginger biscuits. They were the perfect cure for a stress headache; there was no need for a medicinal custard.
“That was fast, Watford,” (Y/N) smiles as her Butler enters the room, “I think it’s a new personal best.”
“Not your tea, I’m afraid, my lady, but a visitor.”
“Who?”
“Lady Arabella Henry.”
“Show her in,” She smiles, sitting straighter in her chair.
“Of course, and I shall have your tea for you momentarily.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Watford.”
“It has been known,” He muses in humour, bowing at the young woman before letting her guest enter.
“Darling!” Lady Arabella cries, throwing her arms in the air as she greets her dearest friend.
“Bella,” (Y/N) sighs happily, feeling much better in the presence of a dear, dear friend.
“You are the talk of the town! Tell me, what was he like? Is he rugged? Is he all country and barely refined at all?”
“Who?”
“Lord Malfoy, of course!” She shrieks, making Watford jump as he enters with the tea tray.
(Y/N) remains silent on the matter; enjoying the way her friend squirms as (Y/N) studiously pours two cups of tea, adding the perfect amount of sugar and milk to both.
“You’re killing me here!” Lady Arabella cries, throwing herself back in her chair dramatically, fanning herself with her hand.
“Yes,” (Y/N) giggles, “You’re clearly very dead.”
“Answer my questions, you wretch!”
“Alright,” (Y/N) surrenders with a loud, unladylike laugh. “He is the perfect gentleman as he was raised to be. Yes, he’s more country than ton now, but it suits him better, I think. Honestly, Bella, you make him sound like one of the heroes in your silly romance novels.”
“They are not silly!” Bella defends, “Lady Quinn and the Perfect Prince is a masterpiece, I’ll have you know.”
“Is that the one where the heroine is kidnapped by pirates?”
“No, you’re thinking of Miss Priscilla and the Seductive Privateer.”
“Ah,” (Y/N) nods, taking all of this very seriously. The two friends fall quiet as they sip at their tea, helping themselves to Cook’s remarkably buttery biscuits filled with ginger spice and orange peel.
“How was your morning tryst with Lord Malfoy?” Lady Arabella Henry asks; blue eyes sparkling over her tepid cup of tea.
“Where did you hear about that?”
“Anne heard it from Mary, who heard it from Sybil who happened to see you both in Hyde Park only mere hours ago.”
Damn Sybil and her keen gaze, (Y/N) thinks to herself. “It wasn’t a tryst,” She defends, “There was no trysting. We ran into each other, he decided to join me on my walk.”
“My dear,” Arabella exclaims, “There is no simply ‘running into each other’. He found you because he was looking for you.”
“Poppycock.”
Arabella shrugs. “He’s in town to find a wife, you know.”
“Yes, we spoke of it this morning.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are you to be his wife?” Arabella presses, leaning forward in her chair.
(Y/N) chokes on her tea. “Heavens, no! I am to simply help him whittle down the crowd of eligible young ladies.”
“But you do not deny your feelings for the Earl?”
“Once upon a time, I would have married Draco Malfoy in a heartbeat. We have both grown since then.”
“He is handsome.”
“And you are married,” (Y/N) reminds Arabella, her tone clipped. Arabella smiles knowingly at her beloved friend; (Y/N) may not marry Draco Malfoy in a heartbeat now, but it is blindingly obvious to the ton that (Y/N)’s heart still beat for Draco, and Draco alone.
----
Lady Stephen resides in a rather large Tudor mansion just south of Grosvenor Square. The beams decorating the house are a deep black, contrasting starkly with the whitewashed walls.
(Y/N) enters the grandly decorated room with her heart in her throat; the pressure sitting on her shoulders was beginning to get to her, and she was beginning to think that her endeavour to help Draco Malfoy marry was the worst idea she had ever agreed to.
She descends the stairs of the large room at her announcement, taking extra care on the white marble, hoping not to slip, and put an end to the evening before it began. Her skirts swish at her feet; the mauve contrasting perfectly with the silver decorations chosen for Lady Stephen’s winter theme despite the date set firmly in March.
Without realising it, her eyes begin to search for the shock of blonde hair attached to Draco. His stature was much taller than your average man; resting comfortably at over six foot, he was easy to find in such a crowd.
It was fortunate for (Y/N) that Draco had been waiting for her too.
The dark fabric of his black evening jacket offset his blonde hair; the pale grey of his waistcoat painted him the picture of masculine elegance. (Y/N)’s breath catches in her throat; her heart beginning to race as she comes to the realisation that he is stalking towards her. Every head turns in Draco’s direction as he prowls across the floor; each one caught up in the handsomeness exuding from his every pore.
“I wondered when you would come,” Draco purrs, taking (Y/N)’s arm in his own as they begin to circle the large room.
“You knew I would,” (Y/N) reminds him, “I made you a promise.”
“I know,” Draco comments quietly, “But still, I worried.”
“I’m here now,” She comforts, taking his offered arm. Draco’s posture relaxes at her touch; his shoulder sagging that little bit, his smile becoming less forced. Her touch evokes countless memories; happiness rushing through him in a warm wave of emotion.
He moves to say something; say anything to extend this conversation, to find out her inner most thoughts after years of keenly felt absences, but (Y/N) interrupts him at the last moment.
“Shall we begin?” She hangs onto Draco’s arm as she subtly points out the individual women on her mental list for him to meet.
“Lady Carolina Maxwell,” (Y/N) murmurs, gesturing to a slim redhead, laughing happily at something said by a darkhaired fellow. “Her father is Lord Maxwell, Duke of Somerset. This is her second season out; she refused all proposals last year; they didn’t seem right.”
“That means she has her eye on another,” Draco warns, arching a brow at his friend.
(Y/N) shrugs. “There has been no proposal yet,” She states before turning her attention to the next lady. “Miss Francesca Grady. Her family have roots in Ireland but settled outside of Liverpool a generation ago; her uncle is Captain Franklin Grady who served for King and Country in America.”
“Interesting,” Draco comments; his eye drawn to the blonde hair and tall stature of Miss Francesca Grady. “Who is next on your list?”
(Y/N) swivels them around, facing the back of the ballroom, close enough to the wall of windows that they can see their own reflection. Even (Y/N) cannot deny that they are perfect fit together; there would be plenty tongues wagging tonight.
“Lady Kathryn Swift,” (Y/N) points out, nodding over to the brunette dressed beautifully in navy blue. “Her aunt is Lady-in-Waiting to the current Queen; her father is Lord Swift, Speaker of the House of Lords.”
Draco whistles under his breath. “An impressive family,” He notes, taking in the proud stance of Lady Kathryn Swift before glancing down at (Y/N). “How many more?”
“Only two.”
“Let’s hear it then.”
(Y/N) is silent for a moment; her eyes scanning the expansive room before settling on the lady she wants. “There,” She indicates, “In the pastel pink dress is Lady Victoria Black. Her father is Lord Ignatius Black; their family can be traced back centuries as can their Earldom in Kent. A very proud family; a very noble family.”
“You sound as if are not fond of them,” Draco observes, leaning closer to (Y/N).
“Not overly,” (Y/N) confesses with a deep flush to her skin.
“May I inquire as to why?”
(Y/N) sighs. “In my first year as a debutante, I had the unfortunate experience of meeting Lady Victoria’s brother, Lord Percival Black.”
“Unfortunate?” Draco fumes, mind rushing to the worst possible reason, “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No!” (Y/N) gasps, situating herself in front of the blonde, gripping his upper arm. “Nothing of the sort. He’s a wretch who likes to belittle women, and he loathed the fact that I would not let him do that to me.”
Relief floods through Draco’s system at her words; he had always been overly protective of her. Ever since the day the Butcher’s son got too big for his britches, following (Y/N) home from the village on multiple occasions. It had taken stern words and a black eye from Draco to keep him at bay.
“Thank goodness,” Draco murmurs, hardly repressing the urge to pull (Y/N) into his side, to shelter her from all lewd looks and words from the men here tonight.
“Anyway,” (Y/N) drawls, changing the subject. “Your final lady: Miss Jennifer Harding. She stands by the punch bowl; the redhead laughing at something said by Mr William Ewing. She’s a lovely girl; funny, smart, and genuinely nice. Her father is a shipping magnate from America; her mother was diamond of the first water in her coming out year.”
“Thank you for this,” Draco begins, “I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”
“Who shall you talk to first?” (Y/N) asks, ignoring the emotion in Draco’s voice.
“I shall start at the top: Lady Carolina Maxwell, was it?”
“It was.”
“Then I shall start there. See if she has a spot open on her dance card.”
“Wonderful.”
Draco smirks at her; the corner of his mouth tipping up into a boyish smile that leaves (Y/N) breathless with her heart pounding in her chest. She hurries him away, feigning thirstiness, rushing to the drinks table to keep her occupies so she does not have to see the happiness on Draco’s face.
“I cannot marry Lady Carolina,” Draco states, feeling very sure of himself when he returns to (Y/N)’s side after dancing the Quadrille with Lady Carolina.
“Whyever not?”
“She happens to be infatuated with Lord Burton, and her affections are very deeply returned.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Burton just warned me away, threatening me with life or death.”
“Men,” (Y/N) groans, rolling her eyes, “Always overly dramatic with life and death, always drawing their pistols before a cohesive thought enters their head.”
Draco, wisely, remains quiet on (Y/N)’s review of his gender. Instead, he ponders, “Imagine loving someone so intensely, so wholly that you would threaten another to make sure your intentions were heard.”
“It doesn’t sound like a healthy sort of love,” (Y/N) responds, her voice faraway as she catches sight of Lady Carolina and Lord Burton sneaking away from the crowds, disappearing through one of the doors leading to the garden. If (Y/N) didn’t know any better, Lord Burton will have already attained a special licence – they would be married within the month.
“Why have you never married?” Draco ventures. His brows furrow in barely concealed curiosity as he takes in the lack of jewellery on (Y/N)’s left hand.
“Didn’t you know?” (Y/N) smiles as if her lack of ring was some well-known secret that only he was not privy to. “I’m practically a spinster at six and twenty.”
“But you have received proposals?”
“Through my first few seasons, yes.”
“Why didn’t you say ‘yes’?”
(Y/N) sighs, thinking over her answer. She hadn’t married for the simple reason that none of the men that proposed could ever hold a candle to Draco Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire. Whenever she had looked into Lord Battersby’s eyes, she couldn’t help but compare them to the striking grey of Draco’s. Whenever she danced with Mr. Crawley, she yearned for Draco’s hands on her like they used to when they were young.
“(Y/N),” Draco calls, breaking her reverie, smashing it into pieces before her.
“My apologies,” She smiles, feeling her cheeks begin to burn. They remain silent, watching the young couples on the dancefloor, watching them start to fall in love before she answers. “I never said yes because they were never the one I wanted.”
“There was someone?” Draco asks; his throat feeling dreadfully dry from the shock of her words.
She nods. “There was, but I don’t think he ever realised.”
“How sad.”
“Awfully,” (Y/N) murmurs, smiling for Draco’s benefit. “Now, who are you going to dance with next?”
------
(Y/N) hadn’t wanted to leave her bed the morning after Lady Stephen’s ball. She wanted to remain hidden; tucked away under her many blankets as she replayed the evening in her mind and how she could still feel the heat emanating from Draco’s body, how she could still smell the spice of his cologne permeating her nostrils.
She didn’t want to leave her bed. It was the thump of the pillow hitting the side of her head that drew her from her dreams of grey eyes and broad shoulders.
“Where is Marie?” (Y/N) shrieks, covering her head to protect herself from the violence of Bella’s pillow swings.
“Waiting outside,” Bella laughs, landing the perfect hit on (Y/N)’s shoulder. “I wanted to be the one to wake you up.”
“You’re a wretch!” (Y/N) cries, her voice muffled by her blankets.
“I’m your best friend, reminding you of your appointment at the modiste.” Bella chimes, pillow now tucked away safely under her arm.
“Do we have to?” (Y/N) groans, “I have more than enough dresses.”
“Madame Bonville waits for no woman,” Bella states darkly; her voice serious, remembering the one time she had missed an appointment with the famed modiste and how her hem lines had been wonky for a month.
(Y/N) whimpers dramatically as she rises from her bed, calling for Marie to help her dress. Bella crows in victory, launching the pillow to the top of the bed before kissing (Y/N)’s cheek and leaving her with her maid.
Marie meets the haunted look of (Y/N) and struggles to repress her laughter. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Marie!” (Y/N) gasps, holding a hand to her heart.
“I couldn’t resist, my Lady.”
“What did she promise you?”
“A copy of the latest Penny Dreadful.”
“Shameful,” (Y/N) laughs, slipping on the skirt handed to her by her beloved maid. Marie snorts, but wisely remains quiet as (Y/N) gets dresses for the day.
Bella manages to keep (Y/N) occupied for the duration of their carriage ride to Madame Bonville’s. Bella had found it hard to keep a straight face but did her best as they chatted aimlessly about inane subjects – neither were ready to properly dissect what had happened the evening before. (Y/N) wanted it to be hers that little bit longer.
Madame Bonville’s boutique was always bustling with meddlesome mothers and darling daughters; each one desperate for the latest fabric or pattern, wanting to be ahead of the crowd and Madame Bonville was more than happy to indulge.
A short, stout, greying woman, Madame Bonville struck fear into the hearts of many a debutante. Her straightforward attitude often struck a chord amongst many of the ton, but they kept coming back. They knew talent when they saw it.
(Y/N) stands on the buffet, wisely remaining silent as Madame Bonville circles her body. The modiste makes little noises every now and then, doing very little for (Y/N)’s self-confidence as Madame Bonville eventually sinks to her knees, starting to pin the hem an inch higher than what they had originally agreed.
(Y/N) stares at herself in the mirror; taking in the dips and curves of her body, the length of nose and chin. At six and twenty, she was expected to be married and have a brood of children by now. Instead, she had accepted her spinsterhood, knowing that she would not find someone she could love as deeply as she had loved Draco Malfoy at one point in her life.
(Y/N) hisses at the sharp sting of a pin prick and Madame Bonville slaps her thigh when the curtain to the fitting room rustles and in walks Lady Ward. An octogenarian who held very little care for the feelings of others, Lady Ward was the renowned gossip of the ton. If she had disturbed (Y/N) fitting, it was for one thing only.
“Tell me, my dear,” Lady Ward begins, settling on a well cushioned chair. “How long have you known the Earl?”
“Most of my life,” (Y/N) answers, “I grew up on the estate next to his until I was sixteen.”
“And tell me, dear,” Lady Ward interrogates, pinning (Y/N) with a knowing glance over the top of her wire glasses. “How long has he been in love with you?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“He didn’t let you out of his sight! Most unusual,” Lady Ward gossips before asking, “Are you sure you aren’t engaged to him?”
“Very sure,” (Y/N) drawls with a ruthless smile, “It wasn’t anything like you suggest either. I was simply fulfilling a favour for an old, dear friend.”
Lady Ward harrumphs, stomping her cane on the floor to show her distaste before leaving the fitting room altogether. (Y/N) sags slightly as the elderly lady leaves; tension leaving her body as quickly as it came.
“Do you know what you are doing, girl?” Madame Bonville asks quietly, aged eyes focused solely on her.
“I hope I do,” (Y/N) whispers, eyes stinging with unshed tears as she breaks away from the modiste’s keen gaze.
“A broken heart is hard to fix, my dear,” Madame Bonville whispers, touching a hand to (Y/N)’s cheek in a rare moment of fondness. “Remember that.”
The modiste’s word still ring in (Y/N)’s ears long after the fitting is finished, and long after Bella and herself had taken a seat in the tearoom just down the road.
“Are you alright, my dear,” Bella frets, hands fluttering in (Y/N) direction as they take their seats towards the back of the tearoom, “You seem peaked.”
Waving a dismissive hand, (Y/N) assures Bella. “I’m fine, I didn’t eat enough at breakfast. Someone hurried me out of the door and to the modiste.”
“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” Bella laughs before turning serious. “You look stunning in each dress.”
“Thank you,” (Y/N) replies, reaching for the finger sandwiches, her stomach growling loudly in anticipation.
“Lady (Y/N)!” Draco greets, sidling up to their table, “How are you?”
“I’m very well, Lord Malfoy. How are you?”
“All the better for seeing you,” He flirts.
(Y/N) rolls her eyes playfully, dismissing his statement. “Lord Draco Malfoy, may I introduce Lady Arabella Henry, one of my dearest friends.”
“How do you do, Lord Malfoy? I have heard so much about you.”
“Oh really?” He drawls, pinning (Y/N) with his heated, curious gaze. (Y/N) feels her skin begin to heat under his attention; she turns her head, focusing on the cup of Black Tea in front of her.
Draco frees her from his stare, turning his attention to Bella. “Henry?” He murmurs. “As in Lord Arcturus Henry, the agriculturalist?”
“The very same,” Bella states proudly. Her love for her husband could never be contested; there were never a pair on this earth more devoted to one another.
“I am a great admirer of his work,” Draco gushes. “I have employed some of his theories on my land back in Wiltshire. They have been a great success thus far.”
“Wonderful news!” Bella cries, “I shall pass on your words to my husband the moment I see him. He will be very pleased indeed.”
“The both of you are very welcome to see his work in action,” Draco invites. “Malfoy Manor would be very fortunate to welcome such thinkers.”
“I shall take you up on that offer,” Bella smiles, reaching for a cucumber and black pepper finger sandwich.
“How did you find last night?” (Y/N) interjects before further conversation can occur. Her skin has grown tight with the need to know; she had let herself get caught up in the bliss of being in his company once again. She hadn’t dared ask what his thoughts were of the ladies he danced with last night, but curiosity is her besetting sin, and it was becoming evidently clear that she was a glutton for punishment.
“I enjoyed my time with you, of course,” Draco compliments, missing how Bella sends a gleeful glance in (Y/N)’s direction. “But I don’t think I found my future wife.”
“None were to your liking?” (Y/N) gasps, confused.
Draco shrugs, stealing one of the many cakes on the tea stand. “They were missing something,” He confesses, shrewdly observing the tiny piece of chocolate cake before popping it into his mouth.
“What were they missing that you thought was so vital?”
Again, Draco shrugs – the very action infuriating (Y/N). “I’m not sure, but I’ll know it when I see it.”
-------
The following weeks sees Draco accepting most invitations for social occasions. Envelope after envelope land on the mahogany desk in his study; the cream in perfect juxtaposition to the dark wood of his workplace.
He accepts them all, taking acre to alert (Y/N) to each one, asking her to attend most as well. She accepts his idea, alerting him that she had already been invited to most, and she would happily meet him there. The tonwere still on high alert after Lady Stephen’s ball; it could not be ignored how much time they spent together, how they danced together and how one left not long after the other.
Draco had to find a wife. If not for him, but to take the pressure off (Y/N)’s shoulders.
At Lady Melchingham’s ball, Draco dances with no less than five eligible ladies, each one curious whether he would call upon them in the morning.
That night, (Y/N) returns home with tears in her eyes and a crack in her heart.
At Lady Porter’s ball, Draco finds himself embroiled in a political debate with a redhead debutante from America. The debate, however, doesn’t last very long. She is swept away by a dark-haired, green-eyed gentlemen who is quite clearly taken with her.
With every occasion, Draco finds himself growing weary of the search. It becomes a task, donning a polite mask nearly every night. He finds himself yearning for that someone; someone who he can return home to, someone he can laze about with when the summer days are too hot, and the winter days are far too cold to anything but cuddle.
Draco finds it harder and harder to stay away from (Y/N). He knows how it looks, but dammit, it had been years since he last saw her, and it could years before he saw her again. By that time, she could be married with children. He didn’t want to lose more time with her than he already had; he wanted the friendship they once had, he wanted to feel the joy he once felt with every one of her smiles and every one of her touches.
Somewhere along the line, (Y/N) had felt herself fall. She had felt herself fall in love with the boy who was her first friend, and she did nothing to stop herself. She did not protect her heart; she did not talk sense into herself. She simply let herself fall in love for there was no stopping it now that it had started.
There was no stopping the racing of her heart when their gazes met. There was no stopping the butterflies in her stomach when he smiled at her. There was no stopping the rush of warmth that blazed through her when they reminisced of their shared childhood, remembering the ways in which they played together.
There was no stopping the dreams either. Night after night she dreamed of Draco; of countless scenarios in which she found him loving her with the intensity of Lord Burton for Lady Carolina. Time after time she awoke, her hand outstretched to the empty side of the bed, as if it were waiting for a body to fill the space, waiting for Draco to join her there.
Her heart yearned for what it could not have, and in return, with every outing and every ball, it took a battering, leaving it bloody and bruised on the floor as she endured the way Draco would smile at other women. She felt cursed; she felt doomed to watch the man she so desperately loved fall for another. There had been no serious attachment on his part, but there was still plenty of time for Draco to meet the one, and it was that that was slowly killing her.
It continues like this: Draco continues to dance at every ball, in search for the love of his life among the stock of ladies in London. All the while, (Y/N) feels her heart slowly break as the boy she never stopped loving, dances with another, and another, and another.
------
As the days fall further into April, making their way into May, it was time for the annual picnic on the Serpentine. Families who held any status within London society would be present at such an event, and as a result, so would their daughters making it the perfect opportunity for Draco to continue his mission of finding a wife. However, when the subject was broached, he was less than enthusiastic.
“Can I have one day off from finding a wife?” He pleads, his grey eyes wide.
“I suppose,” (Y/N) reasons, her arm hooked through Draco’s as they promenade through Hyde Park on their way to the Serpentine.
“I’d like to spend today with my friends,” He explains, “Not thinking about dowries and virility.”
(Y/N) scrunches her nose in distaste. “Honestly, Draco, did you have to say that?”
Draco throws his head back with laughter. “You’ve heard much worse, I’m sure.”
(Y/N) rolls her eyes, remaining silent for the rest of their walk, enjoying Draco’s company in its fullest. Relief rushed through her body at Draco’s lack of enthusiasm for using today to further his cause; selfishly, (Y/N) wanted a little longer with him. A little longer to reminisce on their friendship, a little longer to dance with him. A little longer to imagine a future with him.
Jewelled tones sparkled on the horizon, the bright colours the latest rage for all ton families. It was if a pirate ship had been ransacked and their treasures left behind on the banks of the Serpentine: rich crimsons blended into a bright magenta with lush sapphire dotted throughout.
Theodore stands at the sight of his friend, waving frantically to gather Draco’s attention. Draco snorts at the sight of his friend; his grip on (Y/N tightening as they wander off the gravel path, heading straight for the emerald green tent of Theodore Nott, Lord Saville.
“Malfoy!” Theodore smiles, “Come! Meet my family.”
He beckons the two over; wide smiles and happy eyes as Theodore stands proudly beside his seated wife. “This is my wife, Elsie, and this is our daughter, Ethel.”
“A pleasure,” Draco smiles, kissing the back of Elsie’s hand, waving cutely at the babe in arms.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Lord Malfoy. Theo has told me so much,” Elsie smiles, looking every part the happy, devoted wife as she leans into her husband’s touch.
(Y/N)’s stomach hollows with envy as she takes in the sight of utter devotion and irrevocable love that flashes between the couple. It leaves her shaky and short of breath. In the hopes of filling her lungs with the much-needed air, she inhales sharply, bringing Draco’s attention to herself.
“Lord Theodore Nott, Lady Elsie Nott, may I introduce Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N) – a dear friend from childhood.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” (Y/N) smiles though it doesn’t reach her eyes; the earlier hollowness still present within her.
“Would you care for some tea?” Elsie asks the pair, wondering whether either of them could see the yearning in their eyes. “I only have Earl Grey, I’m afraid, I hope that’s alright.”
“Earl Grey would be lovely,” (Y/N) answers, taking a seat next to the new mother.
“Would you like some lemon?” Elsie offers, gesturing to the citrus by the teapot.
“None for me, thank you,” (Y/N) responds, reaching for her newly filled cup, taking that needed first sip. It was (Y/N)’s firm belief that the world could be put to rights over a cup of tea whether it was Black Tea, Jasmine Tea or Earl Grey – they all had the wondrous effect of settling her nerves. Something she desperately needed when spending elongated time with Draco Malfoy.
“You don’t like Earl Grey,” Draco whispers to (Y/N) when his friends are occupied with their new arrival, cooing over the fidgeting infant. “You’ve never liked Earl Grey. You prefer Black Tea unless you’re feeling frivolous then you’ll ask for Chai.”
“Don’t say anything,” (Y/N) hisses, glaring at the blonde, “I want her to like me.”
“She already does,” Draco answers, flashing his gaze between (Y/N) and his oldest friends. (Y/N) watches as Draco’s gaze softens at the sight of the young, held delicately by her mother. The very picture has her battered and broken heart beating faster; the idea of Draco as a father, holding his young – it sent her into overdrive.
“Tell me, Lady (Y/N),” Theodore urges, breaking the moment between herself and Draco, “What was Malfoy like as a child?”
“I don’t think we need to hear about this,” Draco hurriedly interjects, glaring at his school chum before turning his pleading gaze on (Y/N).
(Y/N) ponders for a moment, letting Draco sweat as she takes her time to consider the requests from both men. In the end, she shrugs her shoulders, flashing a coy smile at the blonde.
“I was forever getting Draco into trouble,” She admits to Draco’s surprise. “I couldn’t help it,” She laughs, sounding far away, in a distant memory. “His bright blonde hair made him so easy to corrupt.”
Theodore’s head tips back from the force of his laughter. He claps Draco on the shoulder, thoroughly entertained by the myriad of stories now falling freely from (Y/N)’s lips. Draco remains silent; letting his friends have fun on his behalf. When he thinks back on the stories, Draco can only remember a time filled with pure happiness and the spark of teenage love.
“So, he jumped into the pond, entirely naked!” (Y/N) all but screams, the laughter leaving her body so forcefully, she slumps in her chair.
Draco’s heart begins to beat faster in his chest; pounding with such a force it’s a wonder that the rest of the party haven’t heard it.
Her smile evoked warm summer nights: it reminded him of lazy days by the pond, the feel of the grass between his toes and the sun on his back. It brought him back to feel of her fingers tangled with his, of how she would kiss him without shame. They had been on the precipice of something more when it all ended suddenly; they had only shared one kiss – just one kiss, before (Y/N) was taken to London for her debut season and Draco was sent to Oxford in the hopes of becoming a refined gentleman.
So much could be said with a smile, he realises.
“Draco?” She calls, waving a hand in his face, bringing him back to the present. “Where did you go to?”
“Nowhere,” He answers, “Wool gathering.”
(Y/N) accepts the reply easily, reaching for her cup of tea to refresh her parched throat after such laughter and reminiscing. Draco wants to laugh at the realisation; he wants to laugh, cry and shout all at the same time. Not a single soul has realised the shift.
Draco’s entire worldview has changed from one smile, and no-one is any the wiser. He’s fallen head over heels for his childhood friend, and not even she has realised how her smile makes his heart race, and her inquisitive mind keeps him on his toes. It’s with a sharp shock to his system that Draco realises, he has found what was missing in the women he danced with – not a one was (Y/N).
In the span of a single moment, who he was before no longer reflects who he was now.
------
Draco hadn’t slept; he hadn’t been able to find peace no matter what position he laid in, or the number of whiskies he sank before climbing between the soft sheets of his bed. Instead, he stared at the ceiling before moving to the window seat as the sun began to rise over the Thames.
His mind hadn’t quietened. Instead, it had replayed the picnic by the Serpentine – the sound of (Y/N)’s laughter, the sight of her smile, the way she softened when she got to hold the new baby. The best parts of his life were all involving her, Draco was coming to realise.
What a fool he had been! Flouncing around London, attending balls and dancing with eligible ladies when the whole time, the answer to his hopes and prayers had been standing beside him, helping him to find a wife. Draco groans, running a hand over his face as he comes to the realisation that he must have hurt her deeply over the last few weeks, and yet (Y/N) had stuck around, had remained by his side.
He had come to London to find a wife. He had found his childhood friend; his first teenage love, and had fallen for her all over again. This time, there was no recovery – there was only her. There would only ever be her.
He startles his staff by ringing for his Valet, asking for his best suit and for breakfast to be prepared. Draco does his best to keep himself busy; to not run over to her home and bang down the front door, demanding to see her. He reads the paper, barely taking a word in. He eats his breakfast, chatting to his Butler as he does so.
All the while he keeps an eye on the time, watching it tick over from the hour of seven to the hour of eight.
Leaving his newspaper behind, Draco unceremoniously rushes for his jacket, calling out a brief goodbye to his staff before leaving his home. He decides against a hired hack, knowing that traffic in London was increasing and he wanted to see (Y/N) as quickly as possible.
The leather soles of his shoes slap on the pavement as his steps become more hurried. Before he knows it, Draco is running through the morning streets of London, gathering attention from many passers-by as his feet pound on the floor.
Draco releases a relieved breath, and his steps start to slow when (Y/N)’s home comes into view. He pauses on the corner; tugging his jacket tighter around his body, pushing a hand through his hair to neaten in, checking his breath by breathing into his elbow. He wanted this to be nothing short of perfect.
“I would like to speak to Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” Draco announces upon the opening of the door, handing his calling card to the Butler. “Tell her that Draco is here to see her.”
“Of course, my Lord,” The Butler says, bowing to his superior. “Shall I show you to the blue room? You’ll be most comfortable there.”
“Thank you,” Draco mumbles, following the Butler through the moderately decorated hallway of (Y/N)’s family home.
“Would you like some tea whilst you wait? Lady (Y/N) won’t be too long.”
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Draco smiles, watching the door as the Butler leaves with a deep bow.
Draco begins to pace the length of the drawing room as the weight of what he’s about to do settles onto his shoulders. A decision had never felt more right; he had never felt surer of himself as he does right now, standing in her home, waiting for her to arrive.
Draco pauses in politeness as (Y/N) enters the room, still soft with the lingering effects of sleep. She smiles at him, gesturing for him to take a seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” (Y/N) asks, her eyes bright in the early morning sun.
“I wanted to see you,” He explains, fidgeting somewhat, trying his best to appear as casual as possible.
“I’ve never known you to wake before eleven in the morning so there must be something important on your mind,” (Y/N) deduces. “What’s the matter, Draco?”
“Nothing’s the matter. I just have something important to ask you.”
(Y/N) waits patiently; her hands folded neatly in her lap as she waits for Draco to explain himself further. When no explanation is forthcoming, she tilts her head, examining him. “What could you need to ask me that has you so worked up?” She muses. “You’ve known me your whole life, Draco. You can ask me anything.”
“Marry me.”
“I beg your pardon?” She splutters, rising from her chair. She paces the length of the room twice before turning to the blonde; fixing him with a look that begged for an explanation. “I wasn’t on your list.”
“I don’t care about the list. On some level, I don’t think I ever did. Marry me, (Y/N). Marry me and make the happiest man alive.”
Her breath catches in her throat; tears begin to line her eyes as she casts her gaze over the man stood before her. In truth, she had never expected to see him again, but he re-entered her life in whirlwind, knocking it off course in the best way possible, stopping the stagnation before it began. Yet, she cannot imagine her life without him, she cannot imagine a day where they do not have a conversation, where they do not laugh.
It’s then she has her answer. Draco waits patiently; his striking grey eyes assessing her every move, her every breath. She smiles widely at the taller man; stepping into his waiting embrace as she whispers:
“Yes.”