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This, he thinks, is what joy is: champagne bubbles rising in his chest, Harry bending down on one knee, an open velvet box with a simple platinum band.
“Draco,” Harry starts, “will you?”
Yes, his body is singing, one thousand times—yes , and he is bursting with joy and Harry Potter wants to marry him and he looks so nervous that Draco can’t help but laugh a little and say, “for someone who defeated the Dark Lord, you look absolutely terrified right now.”
Harry smiles sheepishly and responds, “It’s easy to be brave in a single moment. But it’s much harder when I’m asking for a lifetime. So,” — he lifts the box higher — “will you?”
And Draco just lurches forward and tackles him until they’re a tangled pile of limbs on the grass. He peppers Harry’s freckles with kisses, pressing words into his warm skin, “yes, yes you foolish man, yes.”
Harry is the sun, his smile is blinding. Draco soaks it in and feels drunk with happiness.