Archive of Our Own

“An arranged marriage?”

Harry stared incredulously at Kingsley, who, for his part, at least tried to look apologetic. But Harry knew it was nothing more than an attempt to placate him; the instant the man had entered the hall he knew there were only bad things to come from the grim look on his face and the pace of his steps. As his advisor for nearly fifteen years, Harry had learned what to expect.

“You are of age,” Kingsley said. “Surely it’s not a surprise.”

A surprise it was not. Marriage was just one of many requirements for a king, on a long list of dozens of other responsibilities. Amongst his duty to his people and his sworn allegiance to do only good for his kingdom, was a simple promised subject that all royals must abide by. 

Harry, the King of the Hollows, descendent of Godric and bearer of the crest of Gryffindor, would have to marry. And it would not be of his choosing. 

“I thought there might be more time,” Harry said, a furrow to his brows. “Or that I’d at least have a say in it.”

“There is a list of approved candidates. You’re allowed to choose as you wish—within reason, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry said bitterly. “And will their list of hobbies be included alongside their political advantages, or is that information too frivolous?”

“We can arrange for that information to be provided, if Your Majesty wishes it,” Kingsley said calmly. 

Harry’s temper fell as quickly as it came. “Sorry, Kingsley.”

Kingsley’s face remained impassive, but he nodded. “As for time, you are already twenty-one years of age. You’ve been king by sheer necessity for so long already, the people need hope for the future. A marriage ensures that.”

It was nothing new, it never was. But his eyes wandered down the hall, then to the portrait in front of him that he had stood before a hundred times, and the closing desperation grasped onto him so tightly he nearly shuddered. 

“Of course, Kingsley. I trust you.”

And he did. Kingsley had been by his side for as long as he could remember, always patient, always with a wisdom that would take Harry years to gain. What Harry lacked in a father as a guiding figure, Kingsley made up for in the ways he could. 

When Kingsley spoke again, it was quieter, a bit softer than before. “If you don’t mind me speaking personably, Your Majesty, your happiness means a great deal to me. I’ve seen you grow since you were but a boy into the king you are today. Know that your marriage is not something that was decided carelessly.”

Harry nodded.

Kingsley clasped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “Trust that this is a good thing. An arranged marriage is not a sentence to loneliness, or a darkened future. Fondness is easy, and love is still possible. You may yet have what your parents shared.”

Love. Harry had known all types of love as he grew up, but never that of the familial kind. All he knew were the stories of his parents love and the few gifts they left that he kept safely locked in his room. He’d hoped in a way he might find love in his life that could fill a little of what he’d never had.

But duty commanded otherwise. 

He stared at the portrait in front of him. It had provided him comfort for years, as much as it could with figures that stood still, their gaze never changing and faces forever frozen in their youth. He was their age now, a perfect mimickry of his father. His only chance to know him was by the reflection in the mirror. 

He sighed, straightening his back and turning to face Kingsley in full. He nodded, possessing whatever will had been instilled into him as a boy destined for a throne that came too soon.

“Let’s look at the list.”

—

His name was Draco Malfoy. 

A prince of a neighboring kingdom, he provided all sorts of advantageous wishes one could hope for from an arranged marriage. His family had old ties, strong with a rich history that was almost dizzying to follow. Their lands were wealthy, with a flourishing wine-making economy that promised beautiful sprawling lands. And finally, perhaps the most interesting, the Malfoy family had sided alongside Voldemort during the war, thereby making them an enemy.

A war that had killed his parents. Harry tried to not despair too much.

But a marriage to their prince would create an alliance between two kingdoms; it promised a time of peace, where the war that ravaged the land so long ago was yet another piece of history that was simply that. The past that swore them apart would be forgotten with a simple contract, professing undying fidelity to one another in holy matrimony. As simple as that, Harry would have a husband, and the kingdom would know greatness. 

That’s what he told himself, anyway. 

After the meeting ended, Harry booked it out the door. Before anyone could catch him for a word, and Merlin of all people it seemed Hermione was the one who wanted to stop him, he took the fastest route he knew outside so that he might find some peace alone in the gardens, lying on his back and staring up at the sky. 

Beyond political advances, Harry knew little of the prince. He was the same age as Harry at least, which was such a relief he nearly collapsed in his seat. Kingsley was not amused, but he could hardly help it. The last thing he wanted was to be married to someone over twice his age. But beyond a name and a quick summary of his family, Harry knew thing else. 

Harry doubted a prince from a family like the Malfoys would be lacking in education. Surely he would know all the sorts of things a person of nobility was expected to know, and perhaps even more. Would he be the studious type then? Harry had a hard time imagining himself forever locked in the library alongside his new husband, but he supposed if that’s what it took to find some connection, it could be done. 

Or perhaps he would be the worldly sort. Such a rich kingdom afforded luxuries, and Harry could see a prince who wanted nothing more to see the world and all its secrets. Travel was not a thing Harry granted to himself regularly unless needed for politics. Would he begin to despise Harry for taking away his freedom?

Then there was another possibility. The Malfoy’s land was beautiful and pristine, with a pride that wedged itself deep within the soil. Would a prince of such a land be able to find happiness in a kingdom that by comparison seemed rustic?

“If you stare into the sun any longer, you might just go blind before you see your new beau.”

Harry glared at the red-headed face that appeared above him, a brow raised and amusement tugging at his mouth.

“He’s hardly my beau,” Harry snapped back, sitting upright and regretting the moment he chose this particular spot to rest. 

Sir Ronald Weasley was his knight commander, a close ally and childhood friend. In this moment, he was a special third type of acquaintance; a bastard and a much-needed distraction who knew how to make all Harry’s problems into something lighter, a bit less daunting and without the weight of a kingdom behind them. 

“No? Merlin, and here I thought you were brooding for the pleasure of it.”

“I just needed some time away, before Kingsley could start something else,” Harry admitted. He narrowed his eyes. “And where were you for the meeting? Everyone on the council was there.”

Ron grinned proudly. “Luckily for me, I have nothing to do with political marriages. Hermione sent me away before the meeting started.”

Harry snorted. “Probably knew you’d disavow everyone Kingsley found.”

“Oh, absolutely. I heard Cormac McLaggen—excuse me, Duke McLaggen was included on the list. Prideful little bastard. Probably shits himself every time a sword comes into his hand.”

Harry had not met Cormac since he was still a teenager, but Ron’s measure on him was by all accounts correct. He walked through the dining hall with such a boastful energy it bled into his voice, making him practically shout across the room with every word he uttered. He even wore some perfume that had such a foul scent it nearly put Harry off his meal. 

“You can give him some credit. He did try to duel you when he was fourteen.”

“And lost, which is why he shits himself for remembering. I don’t think I had a single scratch.”

Harry tried to hide a grin, unsuccessfully. “Still, he wasn’t the worst. Barty Crouch Jr. was one of the candidates.”

Ron blinked. “Is Kingsley trying to get you killed?”

“Not yet anyway,” Harry said dryly. “Apparently the Crouch family has some powerful ties that made him an option. I told Kingsley they’d have even more power if he slit my throat in the middle of the night and took the crown for himself.”

“The slimy git would do it too,” Ron grimaced. “Merlin, tell me you didn’t end up with someone that awful.”

“I don’t actually know,” Harry said, sighing. “I’ve never met him before. All I know is his name—Draco Malfoy.”

Ron inhaled a sharp breath. 

That was not the reaction Harry had been expecting. He shot his eyes at Ron, watching as the twisted expression on his face turned to something more passive. 

“You know him?” Harry asked. 

Ron looked away, shifting his weight. “His name is familiar.”

“It’s more than that. You know him.”

“What does it mean to know someone, really? I know a lot of people. Part of the trade for being a council member, commander—” 

“Ron,” Harry said, then a bit softer. “Please. I need to know.”

He sighed deeply. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back and staring up at the sky, pinching his nose. 

“Alright,” he said at last, meeting Harry’s eyes. “Alright. But I only know what I’ve heard from my parents. I’ve never met him myself, obviously.”

Harry motioned for him to continue. 

“It’s the Malfoy name. It’s old, going back to the beginning of most of our history.”

“Yes,” Harry frowned. “That’s part of the reason he was chosen.”

“But their ties are rotten. It’s one thing after another with them—bad deals, murders, political coups. It’s all lies and tricks that gave them what they have now, but at the cost of Merlin knows what. I mean, they even sided with Voldemort during the war!”

Harry decided to choose his next words carefully. “I know who they sided with,” he said, a bit more pained than he meant to because Ron’s face quickly changed to something more regretful. He continued quickly. “But they remained neutral for most of the war. Just because his family has a bad history doesn’t mean he’ll be awful.”

“Maybe not,” Ron sighed. “And he may not be the absolute worst. That’s saved for McLaggen.”

Harry smiled, relieved. “Just second next to worst?” He said. 

“I’ll save it for him,” Ron deadpanned. He grinned when Harry laughed. “Who knows? Maybe the years of inbreeding will make him docile. That’ll make him loads better than McLaggen”

Harry shoved him lightly. “Oh, come off, son of Arthur Weasley, Baron of The Burrow. You’re no different than the rest of us.”

Ron sniffed. “I assure you I am. Royals are always like that. Hermione anyway has been pouring over our family trees to see who we absolutely need to invite, and there has been limited funny business of that sort in my line.”

Harry frowned. “Invite? Invite for what?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Ron said with false casualness, a hint of mischief in his voice as he grinned. “Hermione and I are to be wed.”

Harry stared in shock, the words turning over in his head. Wed? They were getting married? His two friends from childhood, the ones who’d always been by his side and even though he was the crown prince never acted like he was anymore than just another boy with a destiny far away from the matters of youth. They’d sworn to stay by one another’s side always. And now they were getting married. And Harry was walking into a marriage of politics. 

It was always going to end up that way, wasn’t it? That was that. Ron was his friend. And what mattered most was his happiness. Harry could mourn his another time. 

He laughed, finally, clapping Ron on the back and pulling him into a hug. He squeezed a bit tighter than needed possibly, but he relished in the lasting comfort of knowing someone and a closeness that could only be bonded by decades. 

“Finally,” He said when the words could finally make it past the lump in his throat, the foul taste of something like jealousy forming in his mouth. He was happy. He’d always be happy for Ron. They’d all waited so long for this. “I thought I’d go grey before it happened.”

“It was just last night,” Ron said, misty-eyed and stars in his eyes. “I was a bit drunk, admittedly. But it was late at  night, and I saw Hermione there over all her books and papers, and I just thought to myself if I don’t ask her Merlin help me what I’ll do if someone else manages before me and I knew I had to. So I did. And she said yes.”

“I’m happy for you, Ron.”

And he was. He knew he was. There was always something between Ron and Hermione that was different from the friendship he had with the two. A bit more charged, flickering gazes when the other wasn’t looking, lingering touches. Harry thought little of it when he first noticed it, until Ron blatantly told him one night he had feelings, and didn’t know what to do. Harry, inexperienced and already aware of his future to marry an ally, was no help in the matter. 

But there was the pain. The unexpected clenching tightness in his chest as he smiled and congratulated his best friend—his closest friend and felt envy in a way he never had before. Ron was a nobleman’s son, but a lowly family and the sixth son. He was free to marry as he wished. Hermione, a trusted advisor of the King and Royal Scholar, was more than a suitable match. And it was chosen out of love. 

Harry never had a chance to choose for love. It was an impossibility in a world where power seemed to be the key to everything. Yet Harry time and time again had seen the way the crown suffered his life, beating down upon him until all that was left was a man with a duty to all and no one to turn to. 

But that was his price to pay, wasn’t it? What matted was his people. Anything else was just a simple matter to contend with. 

He started to pull Ron away, leading him out of the gardens. “Come on, let’s see if we can set a date before I leave. I want to be there for it all.”

—

Hermione and Ron wed on a beautiful day.

Through the canopies of the trees, golden rays of sun shined down upon them. The adornments upon Ron’s armor glowed in the light, matching the glittering decorations on Hermione’s dress that sparkled with every movement. They stood beneath a tree, hands clasped together, professing their love as the world melted away, and all that mattered were the two of them in that moment; held, easily and beautifully, in a bliss that only love could create. The small party cheered as they kissed.

The feast after passed in a drunken haze full of laughter and fun. Dances were had, and stories were shared, some less complimentary than others but always inciting a roaring laugh. As the blue sky disappeared, and the night came, the party continued until the food was gone, and the bottles of wine were empty. 

Two days later Harry was on the road, an entourage around him as he made the journey to meet his future husband. Stubbornly, he refused the carriage, despite the rain and mud and Kingsley’s sharp gaze, acting as though it were his penance to serve. Instead, he rode with his knights towards the front, upon his white mare, Hedwig. 

The weeks since the initial agreement was drawn and signed had done little to brighten Harry’s mood. The Malfoy’s response arrived less than a week after it had been sent, sealed with an emerald green wax imprinted with a swirling ‘M’ and a serpent intertwining. The letter was brief, but direct; the prince would marry their king in the coming weeks, and they would meet at the bridge that joined their two countries. There, in an auspicious moment in history, they would be united as one. 

Ron, as commander of the knights, led the party through the woods and fields. Along with them was Kingsley, a priest, and a few servants. If nothing else signified the mood of the wedding, it was his companions for the journey. It was a marriage of politics, and nothing more. There would be no time for merrymaking.

Throughout his life, it had been a gentle comfort that his parents truly loved one another, and shared that love for him. He’d admired them for their tenacity, and their willingness to stick beside one another in the darkest of times to their dying breaths. He’d always hoped for a love like that. 

What was it Kingsley had said? Fondness? Perhaps that was all there was in store for Harry. Nowhere near as grand as love, but durable in its own way. A bit like having a friend, only an incredibly permanent one that was legally bound to oneself, through sickness and in health. 

He wished he was not king, if only for a moment. Instead of the duties of an entire nation upon his back, he only had a duty to himself and his family. He could have a life like Ron instead; important and meaningful, but still free to marry as he wished. Then, too, he may know family. 

But he loved his people. If it was a marriage that ensured safety, then he would be wed.

The night before they reached the meeting point, only a few hours slow trek through the woods away, Harry called for them to rest early. Kingsley, mercifully, did not press the fact they could have made it there before nightfall. He afforded Harry one last night.

Ron tried to be supportive as the evening went on. He cracked jokes, some at his own expense, twisting tales of their rambunctious youth together. Harry tried to find the joy where he could, but all he felt was the sickening grip of his life being pulled along tirelessly, unendingly, to yet another future he could not refuse.

That night Harry laid in his tent, surrounded by the comforts that could be allowed on the road. He watched the fire in the camp go from a large burn until there were only a few golden embers left. In the moonlight, he could see the shadows that passed his tent as the knights did their rounds, making sure nothing came upon them in the night.

He knew their path. Ron had told them the schedule while Harry was still at the fire. There were only two on watch at a time, doing a full perimeter of the camp, stopping by the horses, the fire, and Harry’s tent for a few minutes. They would do their time until two hours passed, and then wake the next set of knights to continue the watch.

The moon was high in the sky. Harry heard the knights pass by his tent, murmuring to themselves. Rather than walking towards the direction of Kingsley’s tent, they headed towards the fire, in the direction of the knight’s resting spot.

It was time to take his chance. 

He rose quietly. The sound of the forest was the only noise he could hear, save for his own breaths. He slipped his cloak around his shoulders, fiddling for longer than he liked with the clasp. With only a moment's hesitation, he grabbed his sword.

He peeked through the flaps of his tent. Across the way, he could see the backs of the knights on guard. They were waking the next others. Harry took one last deep breath, and stepped out into the night air and into the forest. 

He walked slowly at first, in case he alerted anyone to his steps with the sound of crunching footfalls. But after a few minutes, when he was sure he was beyond anyone’s earshot, he picked up speed, walking faster and faster until he was running, breathless and panting but free, running as far as his legs allowed until they were aching and he finally had to take a break, his back against a tree and heart pounding.

He laughed. It was the first time in a long time he was entirely, truly alone. He was never allowed to be by himself for long, especially outside the walls of the palace. He was the king, after all, with no family to continue his reign. The risk far outweighed the reward, as Kingsley dutifully reminded. 

Damn the risks now. He could give himself one night.

He knew Kingsley would be beyond upset to find he left in the night alone. He planned to return well before the sun rose, but he had to hope no one checked on him in the night, and found their king had disappeared. They’d send a search party out in an instant. 

With that thought in mind, he continued walking. 

He had little sense of direction as he moved through the forest. He kept track of where he came from, but his forward path was one lead by will and the pushing need to go further and faster, as far as time would permit and the woods would shield. 

His grip on his sword loosened as he trekked further. The night air was cool on his face, granting him the grounding he needed as he pulled his cloak tighter around him. 

It was tranquil here. Beautiful, even. The further he walked, the more untouched the sights became, little secret offerings the forest only granted to travellers who wandered far off the paths. He eventually came upon a river that twisted and turned peacefully, a series of perfectly placed jumping stones bridging between either side.

He didn’t hesitate for a moment before he jumped across.

He felt another laugh building inside him once he landed on the other side, the muscles that had been tense for so long loosening. He’d wandered far already, he knew. Maybe this little journey could end with the joy of a simple series of stones.

And then he felt the sensation of a blade at his back. He froze. 

A cool voice broke the silence Harry had savored. “Why does a man who bears the crest of The Hallows cross into the Malfoy land in the dead of night, armed?”

Harry, keeping his hands visible, slowly turned.

Before him was a man. Pale, with white hair that seemed to glow in the might of the moon, wearing all black clothes—heavy with rich fabrics, and the hint of embroidery threaded through the edges. His hands were gloved in black, and in one he grasped the silver blade to Harry’s chest, a scowl on his face.

He was handsome, Harry thought a bit distantly. All long lines, an elegant face that was pointed in ways that made him seem otherworldly. Almost like a fae creature, and he by all accounts could appear like one on a first glance, except for the blade rather than words he pointed at him.

Harry cleared his throat. “The Malfoy lands, you say?”

“Yes,” The man said, and the word alone sounded very fine on his tongue. “I’ll ask again; why do you cross the border, and come here armed?”

He was not a knight. Harry could tell from the way he spoke, and the way he positioned his feet. A bit too perfect, too learned as though taught directly from the book. He had to be a merchant’s son, at the very least, if not noble. 

Harry turned his head slightly, looking back at the stones. He raised a brow. “The river is the border?”

The man stared at him like he was dumb. Harry had to refrain from a grin. “Yes. That still doesn’t—”

“Why are you here at night?” Harry asked him.

“I’m not the one who should be answering questions,” He glared, pressing the blade closer. “How many times do I have to ask?”

“I thought we were just asking questions neither of us wanted to answer.”

Harry knew Kingsley would likely murder him himself at this point, but Harry was having a bit of fun. Whoever this was, they weren't about to kill him, no matter how insistent they were. Still, he added. “I was wandering through the woods. I hadn’t realized the river was the border, and decided to cross. Simple as that.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “And I’m to believe you? Simple as that?”

“You asked a question. I provided the answer. What more do you ask for?”

“I just find it hard to believe you would come here on this particular night, accidentally.”

“And what were you doing here? Funny coincidence you were on the edge of the border too.”

The man snapped his mouth shut. 

Harry smiled triumphantly. “Now, I can turn around and cross back into my land, and we can both go our own ways as though nothing happened. How about that?”

Harry took one step back, but the man quickly stepped after him, stopping him.

“There’s protocol for this sort of thing,” The man said. “Questionings and all. If you have nothing to hide, it shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“First you don’t want me here,” Harry said dryly. “Now you want to keep me for the night? I think you’re rather confused about what you want, Sir.”

“I just want to make sure no one ends up dead in the morning,” He said. “And it’s Your Highness from you.”

That jolted Harry. “Excuse me?”

A smirk came over his face. “My father is the king of these lands. King Lucius. That makes me the crown prince—Prince Draco.”

Harry stared at him. Then he laughed, loudly.

Irritation spread over the Prince as he gritted his teeth. “Do you not believe me?”

“Oh no,” Harry laughed. “I believe you. I just can’t believe the chances of that happening.”

“Because you mean to kill me?”

Harry rolled his eyes in an entirely un-king-like manner. “No. I’m traveling with the party for the King. We’re to make it to the bridge in the morning.”

Harry watched his face closely for any sign of emotion. Dislike, happiness, apprehension—anything that revealed the Prince’s feelings on the matter. But either he had no opinion, or was able to mask his expression perfectly, for nothing came that Harry could make out. 

“Then surely someone must have trained you to understand it’s unwise to cross into enemy territory in the dead of night.”

“What if I had to piss?”

The Prince faltered for the first time. “What?” 

Harry shrugged. “Piss. You know, relieve oneself.”

His lips curled in disgust. “And you had to cross the river to do that?”

“Well, I’d hardly want to piss on my side of the river.”

The Prince gaped at him. Harry grinned. 

“Truthfully though,” Harry continued, before the Prince’s temper rose any more than it had. “It was as I said before. I wandered onto your land accidentally. I was on a stroll to clear my head, and didn’t think where I was going. I took my sword only to protect myself.”

Harry kept a level gaze on him. The Prince stared back, frowning. Harry noticed the grip on his sword lessen ever so slightly. 

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” The Prince asked as last.

“I swear it upon my honor,” Harry said automatically. When the Prince looked unconvinced, Harry raised his right hand slowly. With the other, he removed a gold ring from his finger that was inlaid with a single ruby. He held it out between two fingers.

“Take this ring,” Harry said. “When you see me next after our parties collide, you will know I was truthful.”

The Prince stared at the ring. Hesitantly, he sheathed his sword, the sound loud in the quiet night. He took a single step forward.

Grey eyes met Harry, full of trepidation. It mirrored the pounding of Harry’s heart. 

“You promise?”

Harry nodded. “You have my word.”

Silently, the Prince pulled off his glove, revealing the pale skin underneath. He reached for the ring, and a sliver of skin touched Harry’s finger. The warmth seemed to radiate all the way down to his wrist, and Harry had to force himself to stay still. He plucked the ring from Harry’s fingers, stowing it in his pocket.

The Prince nodded. “Till we meet again, then.”

Harry bowed. “Goodnight, Your Highness.”

—

The morning came and passed in a quick haze. Harry rose with the sun, and not long after he was visited by a somewhat stressed Kingsley, informing him to dress appropriately for the day's events; this would be by all accounts his first time meeting the prince face to face, and therefore required a certain dignity. 

Except of course, he met him in the woods, unknowingly, and had given him his father’s ring.

Harry didn’t know what possessed him to do it. The Prince had been haughty and irritable in the few minutes Harry spoke with him, yet there was a quiet trust, something good that allowed him to believe the word of a man he hardly knew, and treat him like any other. 

For all his self-importance, Harry saw in him potential. 

But Kingsley needn’t know that. In fact, Harry thought he might murder him if he knew he wandered alone late at night, and was so unaware of his surroundings to not only cross a border but then be approached by an armed man, prince or not. So he agreed to Kingsley’s orders, donning his most kingly wear; a fitted red coat, threaded with swirling golden designs all along the breast and sleeves. It had a high neckline up his throat in black, and along one shoulder a red cape that met the other end with a golden chain. His trousers were fitted, paired with a set of matching black boots. To finish it, he wore a golden circlet of twisting vines, with a few rubies around the band. 

He looked, to put it simply, like a king. A man with power, and the ability to wield it. It unnerved him a bit, something in his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He wondered, for a split second, what it would be like if his parents were here. Would their kindness and love prepared him better than he felt now?

Ron greeted him as he mounted his horse. He laid a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

“Alright?” He asked.

He hadn’t been able to get the image of the Prince out of his brain. He’d tossed and turned for most of the night, picturing his hair and the way he’d scowled at him, thrusting a blade at him. He wasn’t at all what Harry had imagined.

He nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

The rest of the journey was quick. Harry was restless with energy, a switch from his previous defeat that caught the attention of Ron. Thankfully, he said nothing, either taking Harry at his words or thinking he was in such a state he might fall apart.

But he wouldn’t. Harry, for the first time in the past weeks, was actually excited.

 They reached the meeting spot before long. Camp was set up quickly, and across the river Harry could see the Malfoy men and their banners. Somewhere there, the Prince was readying himself to meet Harry, unknowingly carrying his ring already.

When the sun was high in the sky, it was time.

Harry could see him across the bridge already, at the center point and looking downwards. A simple sign of deference in the presence of a king. Harry walked forward, his back straight and eyes watching the Prince as Kingsley said some words and a Malfoy man said some others. Harry paid them no mind.

He stopped at the center, just before the Prince. He bowed, and took the hand of the Prince to kiss it.

The Prince looked up, and his eyes bulged.

“Hello, Your Highness,” Harry said quietly, a smile tugging at his lips. “I believe you have something of mine.”

Embarrassment flushed across his face. Wordlessly, the Prince—Draco nodded. He reached into his pocket, and slowly, almost like in a trance, pulled out the ring and held it up.

Gasps went around from the onlookers. The ring gleamed in the light of day, the golden band and red gem unmistakably marking the colors of The Hallows. 

Harry took the ring. His fingers brushed over Draco’s, and he noticed the slight shudder that ran over his body. He placed the ring back onto his finger, where it always remained.

“I’ve heard it's bad luck to see the groom the night before,” Harry said, when it seemed Draco would not say another word. “I’d rather like to think it may have been to our betterment in this case, though.”

Draco’s eyes met his. The fiery gleam was back, the look he had last night as he held a blade to Harry’s chest.

“You made a piss joke to a prince,” He said incredulously.

“And you held a blade to a king’s chest,” Harry shot back.

“You were armed!” Draco whispered furiously. “What was I meant to do?”

“As I pointed out then, you were also armed, and on the border too. I wonder what your advisors would say to such a thing.”

Draco’s face flushed. “I—may have needed a moment alone, away from everyone. I thought I was going to be married off to some old codger. But instead you’re, well…”

Harry grinned. “I’m what?”

Draco glared. “A right old bastard. With bad hair. Merlin, does it always look like a bird’s nest?”

“I’ve suffered through dozens of attempts to tame it to tell you it’s always like this.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Kingsley staring at him. He looked somewhat distressed, and when he caught Harry’s eyes, mouthed at him sharply.

What are you doing? 

“I think everyone may be waiting for us,” Harry said, sighing. “We probably need to hold hands, maybe even kiss.”

“Hold hands?” Draco scoffed. “With you? I should think not.”

“Alright,” Harry said, and kissed him.

Cheers erupted as Harry pressed his lips against Draco’s, his hand cupping the back of his head gently. Draco did not resist, even chasing after him when Harry pulled away after a few seconds. They looked at each other with heavy lids, and Harry clasped their hands together.

They would be alright.