Chapter Text
It had started with lilacs, a velvet box, and a conservatory that smelled like lavender and reckless hope.
That was last year. That was Blackstone Hall.
Now it was twenty-nine days until the anniversary of that weekend—of the moment Harry Potter had fished a purring box from under a four-poster bed and asked Draco Malfoy to be his boyfriend. Officially. Out loud. Without metaphor, obfuscation, or the usual emotionally repressed nonsense they’d used to seduce each other across desks and diplomatic disasters.
And Draco had said yes.
He’d laughed, first. Disbelieving. Beautiful. Called Harry an idiot with a kiss like a promise, and let him slide emerald-studded cufflinks onto his wrists.
Harry had replayed it in his head a thousand times.
But this morning, with the calendar glowing a soft “ANNIVERSARY” in Brenda’s handwriting and Draco humming in the kitchen, barefoot and bossy in one of Harry’s jumpers, something… shifted.
Because Harry wasn’t just thinking about that moment anymore.
He was thinking about all the moments after.
“Stop brooding,” Draco called from the other room. “It’s infecting the marmalade.”
Harry blinked back to himself.
He was standing in their tiny kitchen doorway holding two mismatched mugs, staring at Draco like he was some kind of divine trickster god with a soft spot for sarcasm.
“You hum when you’re happy,” Harry said quietly.
Draco paused mid-pour. “Excuse me?”
“You never used to hum,” Harry said, stepping into the kitchen. “Now you do. Usually while stealing my toast or threatening diplomatic assassinations.”
Draco didn’t look up. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You were doing Angelica’s wedding march last week while folding socks.”
“That’s classified information.”
Harry smiled and set the mugs down, one at Draco’s elbow, the other between them.
The flat smelled like orange peels, parchment, and that spellwork cologne Draco used that cost more than Harry’s broomstick. It was warm. Quiet. Domestic in a way that should’ve felt jarring.
Instead, it felt like his chest was full of treacle.
He didn’t know when it happened.
Maybe it was the first time Draco fell asleep on his chest mid-report.
Maybe it was when Draco had hexed the HR department for trying to ban “covert hallway touching” and then calmly filed the appeal under “Administrative Foreplay.”
Or maybe it was this. A morning. Like any other.
Except now Harry couldn’t stop thinking: I want this forever.
Not a fairytale. Not an enchanted wedding at Hogwarts with floating candles and Rita Skeeter lurking in a shrubbery. Just… this.
Draco, in his jumper. Their flat. The way he sipped coffee and scowled at the Prophet like it owed him reparations.
“Do you remember Blackstone?” Harry asked suddenly, sliding into the chair opposite him.
Draco didn’t look up. “Do you mean the estate, the chandelier that whispers things, or the opera peacocks named after Sirius’ exes?”
Harry grinned. “The weekend.”
Draco paused, one hand loosely wrapped around his mug. His cuff shifted, and Harry caught the faint glint of green—one of the promise cufflinks, still worn like armor.
“I remember,” Draco said, and the words were soft. Uncharacteristically bare.
Harry leaned on his hand. “You knew I was going to ask you, didn’t you?”
“I suspected,” Draco said, and then glanced up, something flickering behind his eyes. “You had that face. The one that usually precedes confessions or catastrophes.”
“You said yes.”
Draco tilted his head. “You asked nicely.”
Harry’s chest tightened.
He thought it would be easier by now. That being with Draco would eventually become less overwhelming, less consuming. But it wasn’t. It never was. Every version of Draco—smug, sleepy, stormy—was another version Harry wanted to spend his life with.
That’s it, his heart whispered. Not just more time. All time. Every day.
He wanted to marry him.
And Merlin, that was terrifying.
Harry took a sip of his coffee to buy time, and then very casually, very calmly, choked on it.
Draco didn’t even flinch. “If you’re going to die in front of me, do it quietly. I’ve got a floo call with the Italian Trade Department at ten and they’re already dramatic.”
Harry coughed. “Not dying.”
“Just emotionally imploding?”
“Always.”
Draco went back to the paper. “Good. You’re not allowed to die until I’ve gotten you into proper dress robes.”
Harry stared at him.
There were a thousand things he could say.
You already have.
Do you want a wedding suit instead?
You hum when you’re happy and I want to hear it forever.
Instead, he said, “We should go away for the anniversary.”
Draco raised a brow. “Romantic getaway? Shall I pack my silk and sarcasm?”
Harry grinned. “All of the above. Somewhere quiet. Private. No reporters. No goats.”
“No singing dishes either.”
“That was an accident.”
“It was a duet.”
They bickered. Bantered. Went about their day.
But the thought lodged itself deep in Harry’s ribs: He said yes once. Could he say yes again?
And Harry—Harry was going to find out.
Not today. Not in twenty-nine days. But soon.
When he was ready. When the moment was right.
Because Draco Malfoy had changed his life with a laugh and a kiss and a pair of enchanted cufflinks. And Harry wasn’t done being changed by him.
Not yet.
Not ever.